The rapist's mind was a storm of terror and confusion. He had killed before, many times, and had watched the light fade from dozens of eyes.
One of the things he liked to do was to touch the body of the recently dead so he could feel the heat leaving their bodies, and that was why he liked to rape dying women, because the fact that their life was leaving white he was pushing his seed inside theor cold bodies was a sort of power he knew he could never have in any normal setting.
He understood death, he understood depravity with a chilling completeness, and yet, he did not understand this.
The boy, no, the thing that wore the boy's skin, crouched there with its head tilted a little too much, as if it did not know the limitations to the angle of a neck, or maybe it did know but could not possibly care.
