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Weekly Contest #325
Damien’s skin crawled like a decrepit breeze had passed over him as he observed another motel room with its all-too-familiar dirty gray carpeting and bedding best left untouched. But ‘The Artist’ had left his mark. The walls had been freshly painted crimson—the generic container of white paint blended with the victim’s blood still sat in the bathroom. Then there was the smell, sulphuric notes hiding under the stench of rust. As for the exsanguinated victim left kneeling in the center of the room, he was as pale as a sculpture, arranged with ...
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