So I mentioned how I’d found a gory side to my writing this time, here it is;
(Incidentally I’d steer clear if you are squeamish or have just eaten. It’s just better for everyone that way ;D)
“The scene before me, on reentering the motel room was beyond horrific. I reeled from the shock of it, my eyes frantically scanning. There was blood everywhere. Duncan lay on his back across the bed, his throat slit. Arterial blood had sprayed up the wall, a red arch bisecting a standard, non-descript, motel room watercolor. He had been eviscerated, split open from groin to ribs. His internal organs looked like someone had lost interest while trying to remove them, they were kind of slopped half in and half out of his body. The ragged edges of his t-shirt were soaked in blood, as was the comforter beneath him. The blood had collected in the hollow made by his body (my subconscious helpfully offered up the word corpse), one arm was thrown out at a right angle to his body, the other lay to the side of the gory cavity, I felt my gorge rise as I noticed his fingers were hanging just inside the hole. From the look of the red ‘gloves’ covering his hands, it appeared as if he’d spent his last moments trying to hold in the oozing, purple coils of his own intestines. I glanced down, there was more blood pooled on the floor, puddling around his feet, his converse stained a deep scarlet where once they’d been white. I gagged as the smell hit me, my stomach rolling even more than it had been outside. I blinked rapidly turning the abattoir like motel room into a stuttering series of shots.
Seth was in the chair he’d been sitting in when I stepped out only moments ago. It took a second for my brain to process the information and I really wished it hadn’t bothered. Seth’s throat was a gaping maw; it had been cut so deeply his head lolled back presenting me with a big bloody smile, grinning away. I reluctantly stepped sideways, compelled to see, even as my brain was skittering away from the reality. The back of Seth’s head had come to rest against the back of the chair, eyes staring glassily at the ceiling. I followed his sightline against my own free will and surveyed the sprays of blood that crisscrossed the ceiling. Someone had really gone to town on the boys. Finally, my stomach gave up its futile struggle to hold onto what little breakfast I’d had, I stumbled backwards catching the doorframe with my shoulder. Fortunately the jolt spun me around, not a moment too soon, as I felt the hot bile rise, fast followed by my breakfast. I leaned over the threshold as my stomach voided itself. I could barely hear the voice over my retching, so when someone touched my back I jerked forwards, almost pitching myself head first into my own vomit.”‘