Ten of us conspired to murder Garrett Greenwell although only eight of us actually managed to endure the exhausting course it took to arrive at this moment. You’d have thought that standing over Garrett’s body, his immaculate blue suit, blood-soaked, would have invoked certain emotions in me, terror heightened by the rapid beating of an adrenaline fueled heart, anger rising from a manufactured offense, pleasure withdrawn from a well of psychopathy housed in the core of my soul. But none of that was the case. I felt nothing but pure serenity. “What are we going to do with the body?” Unlike me, Igor failed to appreciate the beauty in Garrett’s death, failed to perceive the canvas upon which we artists had sketched our work, failed to distinguish between the colors of the pallet we used to paint upon that canvas. We hovered over the body looking down upon it, eight murderers, shoulders hunched, heads hung, vultures over a carcass ready to feed. I exited my body for a moment so that I coul...
Comments
Post a Comment