The Mad and the Macabre

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Charlie Stanlon held the dead woman and wept.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He'd been careful, like always. He'd applied antiseptic and bandaged each cut right after he made it, and he hadn't cut her anyplace where she should've bled to death. Though her nude body was covered with dozens of bandages, she should've been his for at least another week.

But, no, she'd just given up. After the first few slashes, she'd barely even struggled.

Charlie walked away from the bloodstained metal table, to the other side of the basement, and tried to compose himself. Crying over this was ridiculous. He was forty-two, not a little kid who'd broken his toy airplane. He grabbed a rag from the crooked shelf he'd installed himself and wiped his eyes.

Pathetic. He was absolutely pathetic.

Charlie forced himself to shrug. "Oh well," he said out loud. "These things happen. Can't win 'em all. That's life in the big city for you."

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