New Noir Intro, Live By the Sword

She lay dead in my arms, a stream of vomit trickling from the corner of her delicate mouth. I’d tried to revive her corpse in vain, left with only an endless chasm of failure, tasting the bittersweet mixture of blood and puke. With angelic, steel blue eyes devoid of spirit, her once camera ready face was brutally desecrated; the  black coagulation speckling her skin like a volcanic eruptions fallen ash. Crimson smeared chunks of her long, blonde hair, ripped out by the roots, clinging tightly to tiny bits of flesh, littered the turquoise fifties Danish Modern sofa with its protruding shiny gold threads. She’d helped me pick it out. Her indigo jeans bore a barely visible wet stain and a raucous stench, her body’s last surge…the dubious gift we all receive from the Reaper… and the crown jewel…a large syringe rammed into the delicate skin on the inside of  her left forearm.  She’d suffered plenty before she died, and her bloody knuckles accompanying the cigarette burns on the back of her hands and her bare breasts told the story; she’d been tortured but had put up a fight. I knew who had done this, and wanted to make him pay; I wanted to annihilate him slowly, and at point blank range, watching the vessels explode in the whites of his cruel, dark eyes. My hands and white t-shirt were saturated in her blood, tiny droplets falling, speckling the sheen of the polished concrete floor. Never had I imagined anything this horrible could happen in my own home. Little did I know, it had all just begun.

A few or many days before…I don’t exactly remember, I was a different person; young, carefree, and in many ways innocent. Now, it seems like years ago. Even if I was able to go back, I wouldn’t have been able to stop any of this.