Distopian Lands And A Locked Bird

Step.

The footsteps echoed in the quiet stillness of the dreadful room; the blood sticking to the walls had dried a day ago, and the corpse was starting to reek an odor of death. 

Step, He walked closer to the door.

His fingertips brushed against the hardwood of the door, but he didn't push it open; what if a naughty cat jumped on him?

He didn't want that. His hands clenched and unclenched, and his nose felt a faint pain like a cold morning's, cold nosebleed. He knew he didn't have much time, but he had been no expert at anything.

He hadn't been.

He smiled. His unbrushed bloody molars stood out in that dimly lit small bedroom; the odor of death seemed more prominent on him than on the corpse...his body started to flicker; its physicality felt as if it got removed, and he turned soul-like. Like a flickering ghost wearing bloodied servant robes, his dark heterochromatic eyes shining with a predatory gleam: