A Crown Made of Scars
Upstairs, in the master bedroom, the door was left ajar, letting out a heavy stench of blood that even overpowered the room's fancy cedar scent.
A man sat in a wheelchair among the broken ceramics and bloodstains, fiddling with a scalpel still wet with blood.
Next to him, a traitor shivered on his knees, his throat cut, twitching as death crept closer.
"Another one comes to meet their end?"
His voice was gritty and dark, laced with a sinister delight for bloodshed.
I shut the door with a flick of my wrist, turned the lock, and shut out the prying eyes.
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