Fingers, part 1.

You're later than I expected.

Marching in, in those clicking heels and that sharp jacket, like you own the place. But you’re too nicely dressed for a sergeant, you should be right up there at the top, I’m not joking. Has anyone ever told you that you could be a model? Seriously, you’ve got the cheekbones. And the thighs, I bet.

But whatever, you’re late to my party.

Come on in anyway. This is the hall, but hang on to your jacket. I know it’s dark but I had to knock out the electrics, and it’s nice and cosy now, especially in a big old loft like this. Daddy’s pride and joy gone all art school boho cool? I don’t buy into it either, just a drop out and a coke head. I did the whole family a favour. When you go around the corner, the impact of the place will really hit you. Mostly, it’ll be the smell. A tissue over your face, you’ll want to tread carefully, with the bleach I threw everywhere eating at the membranes of your nose. Yum yum.

The blood smelt so sickly and so sweet that I had to do something to cover the stench.

It’s still dark so you can only vaguely make out the piles of books and tubes of acrylics and a few sheets of old newspaper. Dust is swirling in the shafts of light from where I broke the window. Obviously not much of a cleaner.