The Butcher and The Wren

by Alaina Urquhart

A lot of well-adjusted people admire a well-sculpted skull. Most of them don’t even understand how primitively ominous that particular fixation is. Most people don’t allow themselves to see the savage side of a psyche that was crafted millions of years ago out of their ancestors’ often brutal need to survive. These are the traits that evolution deemed to be useful. People are just too dumb to understand that their own predilections are suggestive of a gene pool that is rooted in brutality.

like the universe was asking him to take out its trash. Of course, he obliged.

To call what he was doing a “lobotomy” is like calling what Ted Bundy was doing “dating.”

His father’s early advice echoed in his mind over the years. “You want to learn about something, son? You have to open it up.”

The thoughts of the depraved fascinated Wren. But the last thoughts of the dead fascinated her even more.

“Who is missing you tonight?” she asks quietly as Jane Doe passes in front of her. A police officer nearby chuckles. “A stiff ever answer you back?” he teases. Wren looks him in the eyes before slamming the door shut and walking to the driver’s-side door. “You’d be surprised how many secrets the dead have told me.”

Is it not enough drama to take a life away? Are they so starved for validation that they have to package their carnage up like a Jack in the Box toy?

The room seems to agree that overreacting is highly preferable to possibly risking more lives.