Screams, the emergency call said, screams of terror, cut short.
When the police arrived the only sounds were the sweet strains of a violin stirring the frigid, winter air. The front door was unlocked and they followed the strings to the music room, to a slaughterhouse.
The child prodigy sat on a stool by the piano, calmly playing his Stradivarius. His parents and two older sisters were spread about the room, quite dead, in spatters of red and tatters of flesh.
The child prodigy played on, a serene smile on his face, his mother's entrails still tangled in his laces.
Author bio: John Xero writes. But not as much as he should. He thinks he may have said that before.
xeroverse.com | @xeroverse
Disturbing. :-\
ReplyDeleteBut brilliantly written -- I can picture the entire macabre scene playing out in my mind.
Thank you! =)
DeleteOooh, that is chilling John! Excellent work in such a small space.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Deanna. =)
DeleteEEk. Puts me in mind of how violin strings (or was it harp?) were made from cat guts. *shiver*
ReplyDeleteViolins I think. Yeah, wouldn't get away with it now. =s
DeleteI love the double entendre of "child prodigy." Not only is he exceptionally good at the piano for his age, he is also exceptionally good at mass murder.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Shelli. =)
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