The corpse lay there in a serene almost angelic pose – her skin porcelain and her lips blue.  She was bathed in a pool of blood that lapped at her clothing.  Her throat was opened and blood that had once gurgled frothed and spurted, as in her dying gasps, she clasped her throat in a futile attempt to stem the blood flow; was now congealed and framed the wound on her throat.  I took a further step back to take in the whole picture – The wider scene was much more chaotic, frenzied and erotic.  There was considerable arterial blood spatter on the walls and kitchen units.  Neurones sparked and fizzled at the portrait; to any being of compassion they would have fired feelings of horror and injustice.  I am no being of compassion.  Her face was careworn, as expected from a single mother of three children; her face betrayed a beauty that had lain there 20 years ago.

I left her apartment; the city was bathed in an almost spiritual, ethereal light.  In the distance though could be heard the screams as a child discovers his mother’s body, the gunshots of a far away robbery and two lovers arguing.  On my way home I passed a church, the stained glass windows shone a multitude of dancing colours on the pavement. A Saint looked up to his saviour.   It brought back memories of a distant funeral.  She was dead, I had killed her and I would never bend my knee to false Prophets.

She was dead.  I enjoyed this fact.