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The Weekly Routine
Fortelling om en morder som får seg et uventet vendepunkt i livet sitt. Jeg beskriver denne personen ut ifra noen av karaktertrekkene fra omsorgspersoner i oppveksten som har gitt meg en "uvanlig" oppvekst.
The man was being dragged along the floor by his shirt, leaving behind him a thick trail of blood assuming the form of a ‘zick-zack’ pattern, as the killer went from room to room. Every now and then the shoes of his victim would leave a partial footprint as they bumped into the wall; this will surely make an interesting encounter for whoever catches a sight of it. And I’m sure I needn’t tell you that he cared nothing for whatever evidence he left behind him. On the contrary he would grin and often burst out in evil laughter with the thought of himself making headlines for the upcoming newspapers and magazines.
Closing shut the last door in the hallway, a few footsteps in reach to the stairs that led to the floors below, he looked back in awe of the mess he had made and let his slippery fingers drop the body to the ground. For some reason he was simply blown away, his eyes glimmering in the half-lit corridor as if hypnotized by an unknown force.
Hypnotized or not, his feet were still moving, ever closing to the steep stairs that lay behind him. For it was only too late when he snapped to his senses, realizing he was losing his foothold and that he was falling backwards, fumbling his arms in desperation. “You fool, you fool,” a nagging little voice inside his head kept saying, only repeating the obvious.
One might think that he would carry some sort of regret or remorse, but no; not this man. He was not your ordinary type of man; he was cynical, for one. In his earlier days, before the slaughters began, he would always come up with vivid explanations claiming that he was not to blame whatever the situation, and that it was everyone else’s fault. He would lie and cheat and mislead people to his own advantage. He even had a wife and four kids, though he treated them like crap; he devastated them inside-out, then cast them out as trash.
And the single biggest difference between then and now was that outsiders never saw his true face; they never knew what was really going on inside his family house; what they’d see was whichever facade he chose to wear at the time. In a sense, when the slaughters began, he was reaching his climax, caring less and less about keeping a facade up.
And for as long back as I can remember, he was engulfed in anger and hatred and bitterness, often resulting in what seemed to be outbursts of steam and heat from his nose and ears; and sometimes watching him in such a state was hilarious, although with an underlying fear and anxiety.
The moment eventually passed. The backwards fall made it almost seem he was doing a back dive, and some would argue that it was, for he went headfirst into the stairs, bending his neck like an L-shape while the rest of his body, which was still in motion, swept over his head and down the stairs, leading into a rolling motion. He was rolling down the stairs as if he’d just been transformed into a snowball that gets larger and larger and moves faster and faster as it rolls down a steep a hill as that of the stairs.
Just a moment or two later one could hear him slamming into a wall by the echoing sound that scattered throughout the building, after which he dropped to the ground motionless. Inch by inch the winter crisp stillness crept upon the place as the sound eventually faded. It was a work-in-progress building which currently had no windows or a front-door, thus explaining the bitter cold atmosphere inside. Occasionally a breeze would sweep across the concrete-floor, bringing some life to the dead leaves that lay about.
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Obs! Meldinger som ikke omhandler oppgavens innhold slettes. Det samme gjelder meldinger uten stor grad av saklighet.