The uneven floorboard doesn't creak as I enter the room.
For whatever reason, its silence doesn't strike me as odd,
Even though it's never once been quiet while being stepped on.
I stand bewitched at the sight of the crimson painting on the wall.
The dark red spatter is abstract and morbid, but yet so simply beautiful.
The blood itself is still fresh, slowly staining the wallpaper.
I can't bring myself to look at the body below the art.
I can see the shape, and its blurred details, but I refuse to lower my eyes any more.
For now, it's just a heap of blue, white, and brown.
Not to mention the red.
Oh, now there's some black buzzing around, too.
As I glance around, pieces start fitting together, telling me the tale of woe that occurred here.
Among the pages of this story is a sleek muzzle,
A pair of ringing ears,
The back door left ajar,
And a heap of blue, white, brown and red.
My eyes wander, until they land on the hanging decorative mirror.
They take in my blue jeans,
And new patch of crimson.
My body on the floor is crumpled and broken-looking,
Like a limp doll no longer being played with.
My mind starts screaming words that I never thought would be true.
"I'm really, truly dead."
I guess that's why the floorboard won't creak.