Wine and Gun

Albarino put a sketchbook on his lap and scribbled on it casually—not the one he kept in the forest cabin with the pages covered in dried blood, but another one, in which Most of the pages had been torn off by him, and the page in his hand was painted with delphiniums growing from the hollow eye sockets of the skull.

The branches and leaves struggled out from the bones, and the tip of his pen stopped on the tender branches of the flowers, pressing down on the dead man Kong dàngdàng's eyes.

Practically speaking, even before three drinks, Herstal wouldn't choose a place like this to spend the night - but after three drinks, anything can happen.

This is the essence of such a place: cover your sanity with wine, wash your sins with a woman's red lips. The very nature of the thing makes even the other bad parts tolerable: cheap billboards in motels, pads that aren't soft to the touch by any means, the strange smell of bleach in the air. The long hair brushed against his skin as the woman giggled, hot and ready to move.

It's a pity that it's still not enough, because her body is soft, but it's still not as weak as the dead; her fingers will helplessly scratch the palms, but more gently than those who are struggling. Herstal looked down at the woman--then realized in hindsight that he hadn't asked her name at all, that she was either Mary or Anne, it didn't make any sense--and listened to her spit out chaotic gasps, mixed with A little laugh, so cookie-cutter.

At a certain stage he really wanted to tuck his fingers between the other's necks, his fingers pressed against the slippery and sweaty skin, and he felt the beating of a deer's heart. So fresh, so fragile, so easy to break with a little force—and the woman kissed him, so innocent, so passionate, frivolous and ignorant; she would rub lipstick on the corners of his mouth with impunity, like an elongated streak bloodstains.

Herstal felt his soul hang higher, and he was slowly swallowed by the hot and humid sea, but the pair of goddesses who lived under his eyes were named Murder and Death. He saw the imaginary blood on the other's lipstick and the warm blush on his cheekbones, and the destructive impulse was still throbbing between his fingers, like a needle piercing, like a fire burning.

He forced his hand away from the opponent's neck, pressed her shoulders and arms, and let his fingertips press down a little harder.

His girlfriend's brown curls flowed like a sticky, slow river on the poorly starched pad. Herstal saw that her eyes were a certain pale blue, but now looked almost a gray-green in the light of the floor lamp.

Herstal reached out and covered her eyes.

Albariño looked at the dark flowers painted in pencil, but the color he imagined was bluer than he could have imagined. The draft was never satisfactory. From the beginning to the end, it gradually turned into an unacceptable ugly look in his eyes.

That shouldn't be the case, he made harsh comments in his heart, which is not a good design.

So he chose to tear up the whole page - the sound of thick paper tearing was clear and harsh in the room, because it was so quiet at this moment, and the snow-covered land was so quiet, even the people who often swim in the wilderness Suburban láng did not make any sound.

Albarino crumpled the paper in his hand, as his father had done many years ago, one summer, on the twenty-fifth of July, sitting in front of the fireplace in his old house. He felt a little funny because of this association, and he could still feel the edges and corners of the paper being rolled up against his palm.

So should those letters and diaries years ago.

Then he threw the ball of paper—a scrap, because perfection is so hard—into the fireplace and watched the white paper charred by the flames kissed.

In Westerland's public cemetery, the tomb keeper flashed a flashlight for the last time of the day as he trudged through the freezing snow. This profession has almost been eliminated by the times, just like this increasingly crowded cemetery.

The sky was completely engulfed in darkness, and the tombstones and crosses stood in rigid rows in the snow, staid and desolate.

Then, suddenly, the light beam of the flashlight in his hand shone on other colors other than the pale white. These full colors, like a beating flame, suddenly crashed into his field of vision, almost startling him: Then he realized that it was just a memorial bouquet, placed in front of a newly erected tombstone. The cold air keeps it fresh, but it inevitably wilts:

It was a simple bouquet of flowers, surrounded by blood-like red in the center were many longevity flowers, and beneath these golden, innumerable petals were poinsettias and dahlias; their petals were delicate and soft, in the cold The air gradually rotted and curled up, like a pool of blood flowing across the ground.

Chapter 58 John Garcia's Personal Website

Quoted from: https://johngaztia.squarespace

Release time: 2017-01-30

As those who have followed my movements know, my colleagues and I in the Behavioral Analysis Department were recently working in a small town in Buffalo, NY — where I cannot disclose due to nondisclosure agreements — Deal with a horrific homicide, the latest in a series of serial killings that have been taking place in the Great Lakes region since March of the previous year.

Search [Book Reading Assistant] Official Address: www.kanshuzhushou.co

m Millions of popular books are free to read for life without ads!