To him it seemed right, the sound of the crimson liquid slowly running from the mangled throat. The axe in his hand swished to his side. He let out a sigh of relaxation as he heard the splattering of the blood being pulled by gravity to the floor. His partner in crime, clean at his side.
There was a smell… The smell of the rotting corpse made every cell in his body grimace. The fading scent of flowers leaving his mind, crowded over by a deathly odor. It was just a memory now, that perfume scent of flora.
The smell of iron and the stench of death, as foul as it smelled, it never made him wince, or scrunch his noise, flare his nostrils, or cause him to flutter his eyes shut. Instead it filled him with a burst of energy.
This was the moment the rush set in, the pure heart pounding, head aching, ears ringing, voice catching feeling. That started to course through his whole body. He took a deep breath, letting the feeling wash over him, causing his brain to stop in its tracks. As he took the pure adrenaline that was flowing through his veins and ran with it.
He had done this, he had made this small wish come true, and even better he could feel the effects of it throughout his body, like electricity, beautifully painful shocks. He was in this moment, a moment where he felt like he could do anything and everything he wanted, wished. He adored this new feeling.
Behind that admiration though, was pure untamed lust. A lust that could only be found in those who took from the living the one thing held most dearly, their life. That lust; that itching feeling for blood, the voices that called inside your head, pushing passed your body and starting a full on collision course straight for your mind. The lust that when you feel it zapping through your spine, you became the parasite feeding off of its intensity. He would never stop wanting to feel the electric chill that stretched through him, it made his blood sing, and a smile form.
A smile that showed everything, everything he was thinking and planning, the lust spread to his blade, body, mind, and shimmered brightly through his eyes. The ideas that came with the flood of lust fueled him, adding to the fire that continued its eternal blaze.
Taking a pace back, then forward, creating a perfect vantage point for his viewing. He glanced at the face, pale, cold, eyes of horror still lingering, hair sopping with blood. He let go of that sight bringing his foot down. The once shocked face was gone, and the feeling, thrilling.
So he repositioned his foot, aiming the blood dripping shoe over his target. Letting the cannon fire and the foot come down, a fire lit every fuse it could, and soon all the cannons were going off one by one. As he tried to push his shoe further and further into the earth. It sounded like a symphony, like the melody of a song that you can’t get out of your head.
Some would call it the crackle of fire, peaceful, yet deadly, calming, but the moment you take your eyes off its red glow, deadly notes would suffocate you.
It was sick, and twisted, wrong in so many ways that it hurt to think about. The field was stained red, the flowers drank from the ground blind to the ways of the axe and his cannons. They drank, the red color of blood changing them, sinking its crimson stained teeth into their petals. The flowers didn’t cry, or whine, or weep, they swayed in the chilly air, air that smelled like the bitter iron that they were ignorant too. He was so similar to those flowers.
Nothing good ever lasted for him, soon enough the fires would go dark. The electricity, and its shocking effects, would fade. While the adrenaline would dissipate in a single moment. Yet the lust became an overpowering force that would cloud his mind over and over again. It would call for these conditions and craved the sight of a dripping axe, and firing cannons once more.
With a final movement he was off, axe swinging behind him, it was hungry, you could tell in the way it shined. His cannons squished with every movement, as he looked for the next corpse to satisfy his lust.