He had chopped the body into several pieces. He never understood why he did this. His rage had already been expended by the act of murder itself. An utter rage with this woman he loved and with the betrayal she had imposed upon him. A crime of passion.
Why he had then proceeded, methodically, deliberately, calmly, meditatively, to dismantle the murdered body, was beyond his comprehension.. It was as if he was exercising, rage-free, some right or rite of passage. Limb by limb. Digit by digit. Internal organ by internal organ. The only head.
Murderer and murdered in some communion of intimacy, he methodically thought in unconscious confusion.
But clearly even more confusing was why, at a later stage, he meticulously, if crudely & clumsily, proceeded to put the pieces together again in the original shape of the woman's body.
It was never too late to make it seem like a suicide, he thought. The clearest thought of all.
And he carefully washed the handle of the knife in her blood before leaving it beside the body.
Rage has no diary. No retrospective rhyme or reason.
Written today and first published above
Lewicide 2: http://weirdmonger.mindsay.com/lewicide_2.mws
Lewicide 4: https://etepsed.wordpress.com/149-2/
Posted at 09:54 pm by Weirdmonger