White City Murder Expo

I woke up lying on the couch with my head on Butcher's lap.When I opened my eyes, there was no blood, no tofu-like brains and minced meat everywhere. For a moment, I almost thought that everything was just a nightmare I had after I was drunk.Until I found that my cuffs were still stained with blood, and there was something wrapped in black plastic under my feet, revealing a corner of my red hem.I hate to imagine what's inside.

"Are you awake?" Butcher said. "It's ten o'clock."

His voice sounded so calm, just tired.I couldn't see any guilt or fear in his eyes, and his nervousness was far less than that of the physics teacher who was waiting for me to see him that day.

I raised my hand and slapped him.

Butcher covered his face and stared at me in disbelief.This was the first time he was beaten by me in his life, and he looked extremely wronged, but when I looked at him, I couldn't help but think of the way he looked down at me with a knife in his hand.

After a moment of embarrassing silence, Butcher said: "Petra got into an argument with her dad about being able to go to Anna's birthday party, she sneaked out and ended up at our house. She said there was no one on the way. "

"No one?"

"It was raining heavily."

"Our neighbor?"

"She came through the window and entered your bedroom."

The window of my room was facing the back yard, and was mostly blocked by an oak tree, and through the gaps in the leaves, I could barely see the roses in the flowerbed below.Oak trees can block a lot of things.

I was silent for a long time, lit a cigarette, put it in my mouth, went back to the bedroom, and stared at the wide open window for a long time.I tried to imagine how Petra climbed the oak tree and climbed into the house.What the hell happened?Butcher didn't tell me, and I never knew the answer in my life, but that didn't matter.

A moment later, a pair of hands wrapped around my waist.I smell our usual family shampoo, Butcher.

I struggled a bit, but he didn't let me go, but buried his head in my shoulder socket.After a while, I felt a wet patch on my shoulders, and then heard Butcher sobbing very lightly.

Despite a moment of irrepressible resentment against him, I couldn't help reaching out and stroking his head.

"I..." I opened my mouth, and was surprised that my voice was so difficult. I took a moment to say, "I will... tidy her up. When I go to the pharmaceutical factory tomorrow, I will take her away by the way."

"Let me help you, Dad," Butcher said.

I sighed, pulled his hand away, and turned around: "Look up at me, Butcher Sides."

He raised his head obediently, facing me, his eyes flushed.

I said, "Tomorrow you have to go to school, understand? What's the usual, tomorrow will be the same. If anyone asks about you, don't say you saw her tonight. Go to bed."

Butcher looked at me silently and nodded.

I untied the plastic bag under my feet, and Petra's unrecognizable body was exposed in front of my eyes again. What came out of my nostrils was a stench of flesh and blood beginning to rot. Her breath was so sweet, the girl's caramel sweetness, Now, she exuded such a horrible aura that even the closest lovers would be afraid.

I got up and washed my hands and put on rubber gloves.Returning to Petra and touching her skin as cold as a dead fish, I realized that my bloodsickness had healed without treatment.

When I was in Afghanistan, I treated the living, the dead, the breathing and the silent—a numb butcher on an assembly line.

I touched her, Petra, and wept uncontrollably.Her wounds were starting to dry, but she could still make a sticky sound with her fingers, like an old woman's cunt.she died.I'm not sure what this means to me, I'm kind of lost, but when was my hand not empty?

So far, the only thing I'm thankful for is that it wasn't Butcher who died, and that Petra was just a half-breed black woman.

I'm also not very experienced in handling dead bodies.

I covered her with a black plastic sheet, dragged her to the bathroom, put her on the tiled floor, and waited for her blood to flow clean. She puts a layer of glue on the pads of each finger to cover up the fingerprints, although I don't think the Chicago police have the ability to identify people through this.

After waiting for about 10 minutes, I flushed the blood into the sewer with the shower head, took the largest garbage bag and gestured on her body, and found sadly that even if she is a small woman, she can't have a full beard into the bag.As a last resort, I had to take out the kitchen knife I had just bought and cut off her ankles, knees, wrists, and elbows.Or not.In the end, I could only cut off her neck, a total of five times, before her head left the body.

I packed my unrecognizable Petra into a plastic bag, tied it tightly, and put another sack over it.Not seeing her face gave me a genuine sense of relief.

I stood up and turned around to realize that even with the plastic sheeting on it, there was still a trail of blood dragging all the way.I wiped the floor again, twice, and wiped all the way back, and it took a long time before I straightened up.

I originally wanted to stuff the sack into the trunk in one go, but I was afraid that after a night of fermentation, the smell of the corpse would stay in my car forever.I then dragged it to the balcony.It was the first time in my life that I was so thankful that I bought a single-family bungalow instead of an apartment. The houses were far apart, and no matter how smooth the wind was, the neighbors would not smell the smell.

After doing all this, it is basically over.I just breathed a sigh of relief when I suddenly remembered that the glove was still on my hand. I saw the blood on the glove, my heart beat suddenly faster, my mind went blank, and a sudden sense of rage and powerlessness almost made me cry.

I clenched my fists tightly, and squeezed out an indistinct and suppressed roar from my throat. I took off my gloves and threw them on the ground. I raised my fist and slammed it against the wall.Twice!Three times! ...For the fourth time, I just raised my hand when I was grabbed by the wrist.Butcher didn't know when he came, he took me into his arms forcefully, patted my back, and said, "Dad, Dad, hey, calm down, what's wrong with you?"

"Gloves! Not stuffed in the bag!" I yelled, "Fuck the gloves! Gloves! Damn..."

I can't go on.I put my head on his chest and wept bitterly.In my 42 years of life, I have never cried so badly as I do now.Just for a pair of gloves?For Petra?Or is it just my shitty life?

I want to die.