Prologue
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The cold edge of the butcher knife slaughters the screeching flesh. Blood drips. Splattering on the wooden board. The faint, but foul stench of rot lingers. A large splotch of red appears on the pristine white apron, sullying it from the cleanliness originally and meticulously kept.
A large, pale and veiny hand hovers over the stain, seemingly repulsed. Tracing the undefined outline slowly, almost fascinated on how its imperfected edges were formed.
Then a sudden slice of a knife resonated in the kitchen, too sharp, too clean, too final. Following it like an echo, other sounds of the heavy and strangely provoked landing and impact of the blade persisted in the room.
Stillness.
All that remains is a distorted mass of flesh, still twitching in the strained silence of a blade scraping against the board.
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