Putting the pieces together. Trying to capture the crime. Recapture.
Spilt vodka, broken bottles, Smirnoff, shot, shot, have another shot, glass shatters. Fat fingers select a suitable sliver, a sharp shard to stroke her soft, shuddering skin.
The machine stutters with staccato bursts of frenzied freeze-frames, too fast, faster.
Green olives, red pimento pips, cocktail sticks, stuck, pricked. A rash of red on flinching flesh. Blood beading, bleeding.
The doc adjusts the dials, drips adrenalin into the brain bowl.
The murder victim’s mind is a jagged jigsaw.
The screen slows, shows scenes...
Flickers... Flashes... Finally... A face.
Fucker. Found you.
(Originally written for Lily Childs' Friday Prediction)