I love death, the thought of it, not the smell. The sound isn't that bad either, but the smell is unbearable. The sight is very interesting... remarkable if coupled with the presence of blood; the smell is torturous. I can smell it now.
Hate is all it evokes in me. It all began a week back on those stairs. Lying helpless in your arms I did not feel the familiar warmth that filled my chest when you touched me; rather, I felt it- watching over me, silent, crouching, awaiting its chance, to pounce, to strike and bring on the end.
You were there then. But what will you do now? How will you save me? It's here, ready to devour, to suck up the warm, delectable blood and leave a repulsive, repugnant pile of flesh and bones behind.
Distorted limbs, empty eye-sockets, spilling brains... it was everywhere. Death had paid a brief visit but the smell lingered on. The disaster was for all to see, the smell just for me. It is as if everyone is suffering from anosmia. How could they be oblivious to this sickening smell! But they are!
Tubelights cracked, bulbs exploded, dogs howled and humans wailed but death continued- unconstrained, uncontainable, unquenchable.
The smell haunts me still.