psychic decay

||Murder he wrote|| Open

The majority of her blood had pooled inside. Rigormortis had set in and the body, though disturbing as it was, held no psychical signs of decay. From all of this he could gather that she’d been there for no more than a day. Michael took a curious step closer. He crouched beside the corpse. There was no fear or hesitance visible in his posture. Those calm Hazel eyes of his had witnessed death- but still, this was different- this wasn’t some street rats miscalculated overdose. This was murder.

“It wasn’t human,” he muttered. Even though there was only himself there to hear.

Autumn leaves crunched beneath his boots as he shifted position and tilted his head to gain a new perspective on the victim. She’d been torn open from the waist up. An animal attack, or so the cops would think. He knew different. Those abdomen wounds had been created to divert attention from the true cause of death. This womans lasts moments were spent in the arms of a vampire.

His fingers hovered over the tendons that had once formed her windpipe, then lower towards her collarbone. He’d been about to check for something to identify her with when a slight shift on the breeze brought with it a chilling discovery. He wasn’t alone.

“Shit!” he hissed, face contorting as he rushed to his feet, confronting the newcomer. Or perhaps the returning murderer. His body acted on memory muscle, giving him an aggressive stance. “This isn’t what it looks like. I didn’t do it, I found her like this… did you do it?"