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Creative Writing Essay

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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 a...


... middle of paper ...


...ll kinds of fury.
Robert gazed at the man before him, eyes empty now, “Yes, we are.”
The door burst open and a flood of men cloaked in black and blue poured in, guns armed and ready as they charged and tackled the culprit to the floor. He did not resist, allowing them to bind his arms behind his back roughly and chain them with cuffs. A pair of shined boots came to stand in front of him and he looked up into the cold, but victorious gaze of the Sheriff himself.
“Robert Miles, you are under arrest for the murders of twenty people, men and woman,” the officer hissed, and the grimy, thin man, his clothes stained with blood, was hauled to his feet and dragged from the room. If anyone had expected resistance, they would have been surprised to find the man willingly walked with them, and even more so would have been the complacent smile on the man’s bearded mug.


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