The Instrument

I've lost count of how many I've slaughtered. It's always the same. I have no control over my own body; an invisible force compels me to slam into their heads until their thrashing stops. I deliver the fatal blow without hesitation, watching their blood mingle with the water on the battered wooden block. Then comes the truly sick part. I am forced to scrape my entire body against their corpses, rubbing back and forth until their skin is stripped bare and smooth. Only then do I hack the flesh to pieces. I am eternally drenched in blood, stained with a metallic stench that no amount of scrubbing can wash away. Strangely enough, though, the other scents in this room are absolutely mouthwatering.