#tyrving

Even dressed back up to the nines, Irving’s blood was still rushing hot under his skin, burning him up inside his jacket. The memory of the act kept swirling through his mind: the handle of the ax gripped tightly, the way it had felt to follow through on the familiar motion, familiar until the dull squishing sound had resounded in his ears. The caving in of a chest, rather than a brittle log splitting. 

He knew he was a twisted son-of-a-bitch, but he was still surprised how there was no growing horror, no deep guilt, just an ever growing sense of satisfaction and something primal itching to go back to the corpse and whack into it again.

His hands slid up and down the steering wheel, the stimulation of the smooth pleather surface not enough, not nearly enough to settle him back down. Center himself.

Irving knew where he was driving. What a strange compulsion. But as the ax had landed those last few strokes, he’d known where he would go. First stop on his sabbatical. He knew he would get in trouble if anyone noticed, if Whiterose decided to care. Given the ever-present danger of visiting someone caught in the eye of the media, it was a risk he wouldn’t usually take.

He flicked another speck of dried blood off his thumb. He could just barely glimpse the small blood splatter at the top right corner of his glasses. He left it alone. He liked looking at it.