An investigation into the circumstances of the tragedy

In the middle of the street, a body lies, eyes open, facing straight above. Both hands holding the spot where the blood emerged, stomach drained, blood scattered. Asphalt and blood creating a pungent, metallic, shockingly sweet aroma. Flesh, with its liveliness, lying there, witnessing the skies, and the last whispers to protect.

A life so fragile. A body which was intact moments ago, drained of all of it, a manure of the earth. Burial, we know what it is. Giving it back. This existence, watching and wanting.

Photo by César Abner Martínez Aguilar on Unsplash

Flashes of the people around, a boundary set for the out of the ordinary.
The lead investigator in awe, nothing matters as we see something drained. The mind, in its illusion that immortality is all ours. The instant gaze is one of defiance. All is for nothing. He sees himself.

Then the part that protects: It can never be me.

The investigation into the circumstances of tragedy often becomes internal. The patterns become obvious, the murder, the motive, why the streets, why the humiliation. It just becomes a game. The cameras filming, desecrating. The crowd, curious.

The investigators end up being the vessel, often taken under by the mishaps, or passed through the barriers of challenge.
They see as the murderer sees. The body doesn't matter, whether it may be a boy, a pregnant woman. The murderer opening a leg into his mind, the investigator seeing, being a part yet not knowing.

The murderer adds to the world. Creates something. The act of killing as a dark form of authorship. The body in the street is, grotesquely, the murderer's statement.

The parts he took from the others, the logic. The investigator smiles. He wants it to mean something. A reason to make sense of it.

Entry for the contest Daily Prompts for FreeWriters

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