The man’s mouth was set into a creased frown, his eyes lingering over the state of degradation the room had succumbed to. The walls were dark and ashen, the faded green wallpaper peeling off from where it still remained plastered over the cracked wood underneath. There were planks lost here and there among the floor—a perfect trap for the unsuspecting—and no amount of cheep, dirty rug made from polyester that attempted to falsify something akin to fur could provide redemption for it. Dust was rampant in every crook and cranny, which his nose had noticed at once with an insatiable tingle that he couldn’t simply sneeze out. The bed was tacky and plain; a white, yellow-stained mattress without a bed stand, covered by a gray, fumbled sheets and a single, white pillow. The only form of light was a halfway melted candle in a glass jar and a small, cracked window in the corner of the room that was smudged with something indecent.
“Honestly, Mr. Miles. Couldn’t you pick your victims is a more decent abode?” the man inquired sourly as he pulled a pair of white, plastic gloves and slipped them on. He shook his head as he opened up his jacket to reveal an array of tools attached to the inside; an unusual mixture of cutting tools that would belong to a surgeon and then cleaning utilities that were better fit to a janitor’s toolbox.
“Put a sock in it, Robert. S’not my fault the broad can’t afford a better place than a rundown apartment shack,” the man’s companion rumbled hoarsely, black eyes gazing over the prone form before him. With a scowl he spat on the body’s bloodied form, nearly mangled beyond recognition.
“Is that really necessary? I already have enough work getting rid of your tools and fingerprints, but now you add your DNA-laden saliva to the midst? Do you want to be caught, Mr. Miles?” Robert guffawed as he wrenched the protruding blade from the young woman’s gut and pointed it in his offender’s direction.
Mr. Miles remained unfazed, “You’re too smart for that. Now hurry and clean it so I can go home and sleep.”
“Ruffians!” Robert sighed, shaking his head, but did as he was asked. He pulled out a clear bottle, which he used to douse a cloth with that was applied to the blade. He scrubbed and scrubbed until he was certain no trace of red bodily fluid remained on the enlarged cutting tool. Then he was all too happy to be relieved of the butcher’s knife, never liking to the choice of weapon. He was a man of precision, which required a more fine point knife.
“Good as always. Right then. I’m heading off,” Mr. Miles spoke as he spun on his heels and promptly left.
“Can’t bother to finish his work! Always relying on someone else to clean up his mess,” Robert scowled, but let his anger slide. After all, he was just as much the culprit—his hands had more blood on them than Mr. Miles, whom did the foul deed.
He supposed it was better than being the victim, of which he’d almost been when he had first met the barbaric man....