7 Vermilion Dance

After the striking sound echoed through the air, silence fell.

The nakedness of the room made it appear sinister and rather sad. It made one think why was it built at all, only to be abandoned? What happened to the family that was living here before? Was it even used, in the first place?

Right now, it certainly appeared desolated. The cracks spread though the walls like a spiderweb. The windows had heavy curtains drawn over them; the dark fabric made the room feel even more secluded; cut off from the outer world.

And even the walls were painted in a grey color. Perhaps earlier, it appeared nice, even harmonious, but now the bleak paint caused the depressing and equally gloomy thoughts.

Here and there, the grey paint was peeling off, revealing a striking cheerful blue color. The blue hue not only contrasted greatly with the grey tone, but also brought out an uncomfortable feeling when combined with scarlet splashes.

And then, there was the ceiling.

It really triggered one's mind.

It had the color of fresh snow, that just had settled over the mountains. It was the only thing that wasn't affected by the age; and it was the only place that didn't show a trace of filth.

There too, were patches of the calming azure color, which were slowly replaced by delicate salmon tint.

It was a painting of the sky, covered with clouds that allowed morning rays of sunlight to pass through.

A truly alluring sight.

To wake up and face such a beauty each day; to go to sleep and close their eyes upon this splendid fruit of art and talent… That would be a blessing.

And to pass away, under such a ceiling, that made one feel as if one was truly under the empyrean roof; that one's soul, spirit and mind, were set free… That would be a curse. Because, after all, it was nothing more, but a pretty cage. A last prison of one's lifetime.

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At the center, there were two people.

One was laying on the dirtied floor. It was a woman. She was immersed in a pool of blood.

Sparkling and reflecting the light ever so brilliant, the liquid made an onlooker feel both petrified and tempted to dip their fingertips in it.

And yet, no one would truly do it. Not because of the nature of the liquid, but because of the heavy smell, pervading the atmosphere, that would ultimately keep anyone away.

The smell of iron and freshly-cut meat.

The smell of sweating flesh.

The smell of fear.

The stillness of the forsaken corpse was clashing with the slight tremble of the second figure of a man.

On his left, there was a pair of carelessly thrown away latex gloves. Once milky white, now colored in vermilion.

On his right, a set of various instruments were tossed aside. The way in which they were being used just a moment ago, was challenging the mind's imagination, truly unveiling the limits of human monstrosity.

The man's face was dark. A strange expression leached through his features. His eyes were wide open.

And his hand continued to tremble.

At once, the silver gun was dropped, giving forth a sinister yet tuneful clinking sound.

And suddenly, the man collapsed on the ground.