Three weeks passed and neither mother nor father came home. During that time, I hadn't gone outside. I locked myself inside my room, only taking breaks to eat and shower. Today I go out to meet the vintage woman. She called me on the telephone mentioning that she had gathered some new information that she wanted to show me.
I open my room door. The house reeks of blood. For the past few days it has gotten worse. A mix of rusted metal and rotten vegetables. That's what it smells like. Somehow it feels familiar and refreshing. It's not the least bit disgusting.
. . .
I left the house and headed my way to the vintage shop.
The vintage woman wasn't at the shop. I went in from the backdoor. The moment I entered I felt eyes on me. Not two, but six. She had brought new paintings into her living room. They had eyes. Large eyes drawn on them. Two if them, hanged on opposite sides of the walls. One pair was blue and the other was brown. However, the vintage woman's was red.
Her expression is of those who had seen a nightmare. She's leaning against the wall of the blue eyes. Blood is dripping from the mouth and neck. Part of the skin on her neck is peeled off. Her neck has been cut. Nerves, which look like wires, in purple and blue colours hangs out from her neck. She is holding a pen on her left hand. On her right hand she has a newspaper.
Both of them are stained with blood. Just like her white blouse and pink skirt. The pink colour is too bright for her. It's too bright for this entire place.
I look closer at the pen. It has some skin on it. She must've died like that. Using the pen...