Snippet #1186994

The man moved like a predator on the prowl, full of purpose and maybe a few steps behind graceful. He dragged the large stone grate belonging to a wood furnace, more so that it worked like an incinerator. It did its job impeccably, leaving no trace, no hairs, no fibres, and he disposed of his “used” clothes there as well. The only qualm he had with it is that whenever his gaze fell on it, he had the sudden urge to stick his hand in there or ponder what would happen if he'd brought a victim back and let them roast. These were the kind of wild thoughts that got him in trouble—well, as troubled as someone like him could be. The only kind of trouble he could find himself in was being caught. Sometimes, it was as if the cops were sniffing at his back door, just waiting for him. Paranoia plagued his mind more than he'd like to admit, and it wasn't something he could easily forget. Perhaps if he were ever caught, he could plead insanity? Neither jail nor a mental institution seemed bad. Freedom to do as he wished was the true problem.

Bonnie adjusted the rabbit-shaped mask on his face, it was made of clay and didn't breathe well but it didn't matter. His scarred skin underneath was only slightly irritated, and he dared not take it off. It wasn't that he was “afraid” to be caught or found out or seen without it on—who would know him anyway? There were only tales of the dirty trail he'd left behind in other states, bigger cities that only had vague theories of who he was. His past was as muddied as a dirty puddle, he didn't even want to remember anything. Someday, they'd find him and tag him as “John Doe.” Shaking his head, and sucking in a rasp breath of air, he shoved the rest of his evidence of doing such a deed in the furnace and slammed it, clasping it shut. Once he flicked a switch on the wall, flames burst to life in the furnace and he sat on a nearby stool, naked. At times like this, he wondered why he tried so hard to cover his tracks with rag-tag redneck cops in this small town. No. Village.

“I'm an artist.” The man breathed hoarsely through his mask, glancing around until he found a pair of boxers and hospital pants, neatly folded for him. He slipped off the stool, pulled his garments on and laughed. It sounded like crackling leaves, pathetic and sickly, before he examined his scarred and burnt chest. “I'm a damned artist. That's what I'll say, that's what.”

Maybe he'd make this more interesting.

((Sorry for talking so long, what'd I miss, what're you folks doing? XD ))