(The following is a short scene that I wrote earlier today. There was a black out and I decided I would practice my writing, as I had nothing to do. I thought I might as well post it here.)

Blood, splatered against the walls, forming a puddle on the floor. Blood, and it was everywhere.

Where there once was a person there is now only a disfigured mess of flesh, bones and suffering. They couldn't even recognize weather it was a man or a woman, but it breathed, deeply, as someone awakening from a terrible mighmare. The surprise was such that the detectives pointed their guns at that person. "How does it live? After all of that!".

It kept on trying to breath, trying to survive. It couldn't, it was a feeble atempt, with a ripped throat the air would never reach the lungs. It tried speaking, but there was no more voice.

-End it's suffering... - Said Detective Jones.

-But, sir... - Charles tryed to object, but was readly interrupted by the Detective "It won't survive, don't make it suffer anymore..."

And so he did it, with a nod of his head Charles pointed the gun at that poor rest of a human being. It closed it's eyes, accepting it's fate, it wanted it. He shot, there was no more space on that wall to be covered in blood.

The two men spent some more time observing that, a person hooked by the back, hanging from the ceiling, like any other piece of meat in the slaughter house in which they were. It wasn't much different from them now, anyways. Jones brought his hand to his head, massaging it, it seemed to him that every time something like this happened more hair fell from his balding head and his moustache got a bit greyer. His face was the portrait of tiredness, each wrinkle represented a case without solution, someone he couldn't save.

But Charles, Charles was young, and new to the homicide branch, he had no wrinkles on his shaved face or any grey hair. It actualy grew in abundance on his head, in dark brown coulour, and he would take good care of it. He was grossed out by the scene, he felt like he was going to vomit. "I'm not feeling to well, Andy."

-Well, stiff it up boy, you'll get used to it soon! - Replied Jones - If you really need to vomit get out of the crime scene... I don't want you spoiling it.

"I won't." And with a shiver across his spine he got back in posture and turned to his mentor:

-What do we do now?

-Let's call the morgue to take this... To take the victim to be analyzed. - He answered hesitantly - And let's write a report of what we're seeing here. Think you can take care of that? I want to take a look arround.

-Sure.