Blood.

What a colorful thing.

It coats the floors, covers the walls, and drips from their sharpened blade. A smile toys at their face, laugh bubbling through their chest and lips like a drug. Narrowed eyes flying wide, body doubling over at the waist to cackle and wheeze.

Tears slips from their eyes, mixing with the blood and falling to the broken asphalt.

The bodies are stacked. Dozens of sliced corpses tangled together on the floor, eyes glazed and unseeing, mouths limp and limbs carelessly strewn across the ground.

Some of them are still gushing, vermillion and crimson blood spurting from their wounds on their necks, wrists and chests. 

The massacre hadn't been done by any amateur.

The knife drops to the ground, harshly clattering against the stone before settling in a pool of shadowed red liquid. Deathly gray fingers slide up from where they're wrapped around a convulsing chest, up to his neck and then to their denim blue bangs. Even their hair is slick with blood as they pull on it.

Laughs echo off of the walls. Corpses absorb the sound. The killer falls to their knees.

They're wheezing, gasping for air. All that escapes are cackles and sobs. There's a ball in their throat, cutting off their lungs. Their fingers release their hair, chunks of the blue locks falling to the sticky puddles of blood.

Their vision grows spots. The laughs grow choked.

He collapses to the ground.

He shoots up in bed, fingers around their neck and tears in their eyes.  

A scream breaks from their lips.

Their door flies open.

"Abel?!" A voice cuts through the muddle in within their ears, slicing through the water like a searing blade. And then, as quick as it came, it's washed out 

There's somebody kneeling next to him, hands on their shoulders. Abel can't see them. There are hands on his shoulders. Abel doesn't want them there.