The Intimate Dance

He sat back and admired the work he had created. It was art. His very first masterpiece and it lay gutted on the shiny metallic table before him. The most intimate parts of the human body.

Lucan had loved him so much.

He’d gotten close enough to peel away the outer layers until his lust had been satiated and then he was no longer anything.

It had begun as revenge, revenge for Lucan’s wounded pride, but it had escalated into the most intimate dance of flesh, and blood, and bone. It had all swelled in Lucan’s mind like some sick, perverse show. His revenge had been the pain inflicted.

Buckets full of gore, placed almost strategically around the room, and a final bucket beneath the drain in the autopsy table. Drip, drip, drip. Blood and other body fluids swirled inside the once lifeless pail, now holding the very essence that had once been the mutilation on the table.

His organs, stringy muscles, mucus membranes, tendons, veins, nerves…so many gooey, sweet insides had been just waiting to come out. Waiting so patiently, red, purpled, plump and sweet for a caress of Lucan’s blood-soaked hands, a kiss of his lips to the still pulsing life. He kissed as if sucking out every secret.

He kissed the dead, yet still slightly warm lips, feeling a twinge of regret that he would not save this beautiful one, that Lucan must leave the gorgeous body here to rot. His hands inside the emptied carcass, touching, feeling for the last scrap of life, being one with death and so close inside without actually becoming it.

Would anyone ever find him? Would they ever know the real reason Lucan had gutted this man with such tender love? No. Not a trace of Lucan was left when he finished, and the only part he allowed himself to keep to hold close at night was a small patch of skin containing the now withering tattoo that had been on the man’s abdomen. The only part of his beautiful work to be long remembered.

Children would find this decaying corpse tomorrow and at first it wouldn’t look human. When it first began ceasing to be sweet and the room fills with the awful stench of rot. The kind of scent that is stuck to the fine membranes in the nose, clinging sensually to the back of the throat, so that for the next few days everything you eat will have that lingering flavor of decayed meat.

Lucan was thrilled at the shrieks of disgust and horror that would come from their tiny mouths, some of them would even spew their breakfasts all over the careful crime scene, contaminating the evidence. He was half tempted to remain, to listen, and perhaps pick his next body to follow.

Lucan strode out of the building, smirking to himself and slipping the still wet patch of skin into his pocket.