The Body

I smell the thick paste on my fingers.

The robust, metallic odour confirms it to be congealed blood. I look down at the crimson pooled around my bare feet. A trail leads away from it to the large teak wardrobe that broods in a corner of the moonlit room.

With trepidation (and a vile sense of foreboding), I walk towards the wardrobe and grasp the ornate brass handles.

I heave the doors open in a swift, deft movement.

The corpse tumbles out, its feet bare, its face a moon-illumined Rorschach.

I find myself staring down at my own decaying face.