What was left of her dead form lay slumped up against the wall, This is for rachel note display shirtof blood smeared in a line above her body as if she had slid down. Blood splatter also decorated the tiled floor and walls like polka dots. There were pieces of shredded skin everywhere, like whatever had attacked her was trying to get something out of her. Her jaw hung down, but not of its own accord. It seemed to have been torn until it was almost off of her face, hanging by just a few lose strings of skin and muscle. Her cheeks were sunken in like her head was a balloon that got popped. Her arms were nearly shredded to the bone and hung limply beside her. Her legs actually had bone showing through in some spots, and it made me gag. The sight of her bone didn’t even fully register as real to me at first, it seeming too similar to all of those gaudy Halloween decorations. My wife had been reduced to a mass produced decoration, slumped there as if she had been removed from her hook and discarded for another item. A strange feeling occurred in me at that moment, a feeling of anger at the idea of someone discarding someone as wonderful as her, who was the best version of any Halloween decoration by far, but then I felt shame and confusion at trying to down play my dead wife as some cheap Party City prop. The brain does strange things to cope with shock. Flowers and candy couldn’t really do much for a corpse, but I laid them by her anyway.
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The cops fed me and everyone else in our family some bullshit about an animal attack. I knew an animal couldn’t have done that though because I literally saw This is for rachel note display shirt scene with my own eyes. They also said the animal had to have entered the house through the open bathroom window, but that window is almost never open. How many animals do you know that can open windows, especially wild ones? Nothing else was destroyed in the house, either. Wouldn’t an angry and hungry wild animal do a lot more damage to its surroundings than that? Especially if it panicked in the enclosure of a house that is so drastically different to the outside and open world. The fact that they just blew the whole case off because they were too lazy to do their jobs made me feel a rage I have never felt before, but I was mostly angry at myself for not saving her. The cops wouldn’t have failed at their investigation if there had never been a need for an investigation in the first place.The worst part, however, is that, whenever I got home this afternoon, my wife was in the living room. Nearly a week after her murder, she was home. She was in her usual reading chair, reading one of her favorite books. The cover had worn down so much over the years of her reading it that the spine was breaking apart in places, strings playing peek a boo and wiggling a bit every time she turned the pages. It very much so reminded me of the strings of skin that had barely clung to her corpse whenever I found her. This was definitely not my wife, but it wore her beautiful skin. How had it pieced it back together so wonderfully?
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