Nothing like a nice gore scene
Mature for disgusting content.
Alain is one of my friends in cameo; Giselle is moi in cameo.
Alain paced firmly through to his study, those sharp eyes scanning the shelves before he rifled through the drawers of his desk. He’d spend the previous hour checking his room just as well; cupboards, under the bed, atop the frame and even the sheets had been scoured.
That was when a shrill scream pierced the air. Now this wasn’t the scream of suspecting someone following or being unknown in your presence. This was a scream of sheer terror.
“Not again,†he muttered, grabbing the heavy cavalry sabre this time and running towards the sound. The first thing that alerted the magistrate to the scene was the change in atmosphere, not to mention the heavy scent of decay literally weighing the air down. The sight of Giselle with her spine pressed firmly against the wall directly ahead of him was another. He’d never seen such a look of genuine fear on her face; he noted just where her gaze was pinned. Striding until he stood before her, he gently pressed her head into his shoulder thus breaking her eye contact. The movement snapped her frozen mind and the sobs she’d restrained in surprise now racked her figure, sharp nails clinging to the material of his morning coat. Time to see just what had caused the change. He turned then retched to one side as his eyes found the cause.
The street urchin was hanging suspended from the rafters, his head shorn and neck wrung thin with the coarse rope that still bore the tatters of his tanned flesh. His eyes were literally white, those pupils dilated and his mouth hung open in a toothless scream. His chest and abdomen bore the most damage; internal organs had been drawn out, the intestines stretched and used to suspend and loop the rest of his body up over the wood in the ceiling. The bile and contents of his stomach had been poured liberally over her bed, emitting a stench foul and rank enough to wake the dead. There, daubed on the wall opposite, was a simple message; ‘Vive la France’; in crimson ink.
“Long live the Nation,†Alain murmured. The rebels had struck in the weak portion of his political armour; typical. It made sense however; go for those surrounding the target to get your message across.
He gently stroked the top of her head, murmuring soothing sounds to her like how one would try to calm a spooked horse. His own eyes remained fixed on the hanging corpse and daubed lettering.
And I'm constantly adding detail as I go along. It's nowhere near the finish