Creative Writing: The Living Dead

Darkness of the hour took over NYC and a sense of abnormality and fear became present once again. The wind spoke quiet whispers as though it frightened everyone off the streets, leaving the entire city reclusive amongst its large population. As frightening as it might sound it wasn’t the only thing that kept the people off the streets during the night. The streets of this city were manifested with a special drawing like it was a canvas. It was a sketch of a man who was responsible for brutally murdering 59 people. His hair was black and cut sharp as though it’s peculiar to think of how a criminal had time to do his hair if they’re always on the run. The excessive stiff hairs growing on his face could not hide the fact that there was a cringeworthy

NYPD cop cars parked at both ends but even the protectors seized to protect and serve as they succumbed to their unconscious world of sleep. The alleyway was a sad metaphor of the living dead, though the idea opposes against itself, it somehow makes sense. The wanderers of the alleyway were in fact very much alive but the question is, for what? They’re alive outside but dead inside decomposing by the foul smell that assualted newcomers but were of no effect to the ones immune. The cracked beer bottles and empty cigar packs thrown viscously to the ground were a daunting reminiscence of unfortunate events to unfortunate people. Seemingly enough the lights forgot to flicker as though the lack of sufficient electricity was meant to leave the place forgotten on

The thick, swamp-like water trailed its way to a covert, massive dome with cemented walls suffocated by moss. An ugly, yellow light beamed down on the place, useful to the moths and flies more than its own purpose to light but it was enough to see the man that stood there geared in all black as the color of his heart had turned. His eyes fixated on the helpless body of Martha Waynes, situated upon the frigid, metal platform. A rusted, metal mask with a transparent plastic, placed for his vulnerable eyes disguised his face. The eyes were the only thing the victims saw of their perpetrator before they were ruthlessly deprived of their life, soul and body. As Martha roared her last scream before her soul left her body, Veed voiced a whisper, “I’m sorry,” and he set down his blood dripping knife.

Veed’s past resembled an unkindness of ravens as if they were circulating evil in the sky.

He made his sympathetic apology after every kill as it reminded him of his dreadful past though he knew inside that it would not make up for his wrongdoing. He has suffered much loss in his life and there was never any rightful guidance for the most part of it either. His eccentric behavior led him astray from his mind as if he had no control over temptations of his sinful ways. Ultimately things never stay the same, there’s always