He lifts his head from his hands, bloody prints glistening on his face.
A reflection of dawn light glistens in his eyes as he looks up. He glances at his handiwork that is lying on the floor near his feet.
If madness was a malleable thing, it would be easily visible in his eyes.
He reaches into a stretch, extending his arms, arching his spine, a groan of content escapes his lips as he reaches the peak, his tired muscles flooding with relief.
Confusion briefly touches his face as he pauses for a moment, a fleeting thought gone in a second. His expression brightens as he realizes that it doesn’t matter anymore. He casually steps over the corpse that is slowly leaking blood over the bedroom floor, like a liquid leaking from a cracked bottle, and walks the few feet to the bathroom.
He glances into the large mirror that sits above the basin, and notices the bloody hand prints on his face. He smiles briefly at his reflection then shrugs, as if content with life.
He leans into the shower stall and turns on the hot water tap. He quickly jumps back, avoiding the stream of cold water that emerges from the spout. The mirror beckons him again, and he examines his reflection, as if contemplating whether to shave. His image begins to cloud and he realizes that the steam from the shower has intruded on his few minutes of self-examination.
He sighs, leans in to the shower and adjusts the cold water flow until the hot stream is bearable to his skin. He steps into the blissfully warm water and the blood sluices off his body into the drain, like a paintbrush being rinsed of paint.
He quickly turns the water off and reaches for the towel hanging just outside the stall. He wraps it around his waist as he steps back onto the cold bathroom floor. Smiling at himself in the mirror, he returns to the bedroom, his wet feet leaving footprints on the tiled bathroom floor.
A beeping sound suddenly emanates from the bedroom. The alarm clock. He forgot to switch it off. It beeps for a few moments longer before lapsing back into silence.
He gracefully side-steps the corpse, which might be sleeping, were it not for the tell-tale pool of blood slowly soaking the carpet underneath its head.
He rummages through his closet for a moment before finding the clothes he wants. He dresses himself and begins to knot his tie while whistling brightly to himself.
Fully dressed now, he turns and surveys his domain, his glance overlooking the severely battered corpse of his wife as it slowly begins to stiffen in rigor mortis.
He picks up his car keys from the bedside table, and makes his way downstairs.
Time to go to work.