Draft
Her guts glistened in the moonlight.
That phrase slithered through my mind, echoing around and around and around. I told myself I would write something about this whole ordeal. That seemed like a good hook. Great for the lede or whatever the fuck that is.
She died with a grimace on her face.
Less poetic. More evocative of a pimple popped. Too little finesse, not enough showmanship. She was a human once, after all. A living person.
I could feel the tearing of ligaments as I ripped out her kidney, still quivering and wet.
No good.
Who would read that? Someone like me, sure. But anyone else? Ugh. Distasteful. A diary entry from a killer. Uninteresting. Too real.
Perhaps I should begin with the fact this was arranged. A favor between friends. A mutual back scratching. She got to finally die and I got to shower myself in the glory of my ingenuity. This was some shit that Dahmer couldn't come up with. Hell, not even Bundy.
Closer. Still too on-the-nose. Missing that special piece. The kicker.
I cut her. Deep. And for a moment I felt true ecstasy as I gazed deep into her viscera and watched everything spill onto the mattress. She was my canvas. Beautiful. Absolute art.
If blood were blue my bed would look like a Monet.
Pretentious! Who cares about art!
Her intestines flopped out and slid from her belly like sausage links pushed through a machine. Her body, an endless machine. It was glorious. It was organic. It was full of tubes. Veins and arteries are not too dissimilar to wires. Nerves and the spinal column: the motherboard. Together in wonderful, mechanical coherence.
Her voice: modulated with harmonics of pain. At that moment I understood human bodies were fundamentally robotic. We build machines to look like humans. Foolish. The apes have aspired to reach Godhood through the mecha-fication of themselves. And yet, they failed to understand: humans have been manufactured all along.
Absolutely not. Too insane. I would be lambasted. I would be hunted down, my book burned in the town center.
Pliable flesh gave way to my incisions. She stopped screaming after I cut through her vocal cords. I lost count of how many times I cut her. Her skin split beautifully. Gaping canyons that I saw a reflection of my soul in. Her bones: a grand cathedral. The marrow: holy water.
Her blood: wine.
Her voice: a song. A hymn. A choir.
I am the same as God. She was my temple. My congregation.
And despite all the internal rambling, the perfect hook came to me in a flash.
You Wouldn't Believe What This Guy Did with a Few Feet of Rope and a Sheet of Cardboard!
***
The above text was found within the "Notepad" application on one (1) Samsung Galaxy A03 found within an apartment at [REDACTED FOR SUBJECT ANNONYMITY], with only three (3) calls from the same phone to an unknown phone number, presumably owned by [REDACTED FOR VICTIM ANNONYMITY].
