(no subject)
A storage unit. Rented to one Professor Jonah Sarus. Paid in cash. Cleared out half a month ago, paid up until next week. But the screaming. The screaming.
Four canister of gas, three deployed. They sit in the center of the room. They sit, surrounded by blood. By death. By life. By bodies.
Three deployed, and if you're not careful the fourth will go off when you touch it.
Paranoia.
One.
A boy. Twenty. Left alive. Barely conscious. Handcuffed to a wheelchair right in front of the door, facing inward . An oxygen mask is strapped to his face, a sign is hung around his neck. Black paper. White ink. 'He's not here'. It smells like nothing.
Two.
A woman. Thirty Five. Dead. Shot. Shot several times, and it seems likely that she bled to death. A note pinned to her chest, and it reads 'She killed your mother'. Purple marker. Smells like gasoline.
Three.
A man. Thirty. Alive. Screaming. Weeping. In the corner of the storage unit. Stabbed in the leg. Stabbed in the arm. Self inflicted. A note, pinned to the sleeve of his shirt. Stained in blood. Barely readable. 'Cut it out before you-', the rest is lost. Yellow marker. Smells like rotting meat.
Four.
Another man. Twenty Six. Red Hair. Dead. No apparent wounds, probably suffocation. From the gas. From the gas. A note, pinned to his shirt. 'He thinks it's a game'. Smells like popcorn. A gun on the floor by his hands, recently shot. The bullets will match those in the girl.
Red.
Blood on the wall. Smears on the wall. Writing on the wall. Like fingers dipped into paint.
A god in wrath
Was beating a man;
He cuffed him loudly
With thunderous blows
That rang and rolled over the earth.
All people came running.
The man screamed and struggled,
And bit madly at the feet of the god.