Zero Zero


Staring at the limp, contorted frame discarded on the checked tile I wondered about the very concept of irrationality. It is absurd in that it implies rationality to be valid by extension. It is polarized. A direct rejection of the tragic spectrum of behavior between logic and emotion. A rather optimistic assumption that we – humans – are more divine creation than brutal beast. Good and evil. Up and down. Meaningless simplifications. A rejection of what we know. I surveyed the cluttered mixture of logic and emotion trying to delineate the two. Crimson is such a romantic notion. The reality of the matter is muddy, clumping brown gore with seams of shiny black. Yellow and blue blotches rising to pink shreds on sickly pale skin. Hemoglobin is far more ambitious than artistic canon would have it. The dark ichor is, however, flecked with spots of that fabled, passionate red.

I wonder for an instant whether those beautiful crimson spots in the otherwise revolting mess are part of what makes us examine murder in terms of irrationality. It’s so concise. So aesthetic. So naive. I make a quick estimate that this battered woman last stirred less than 24 hours ago. Perhaps less than 12. I imagine the body as an extension of the killer – a sportsman his ball or a driver her car. Quarry and prey. I envision the ecosystem between them. I try to extrapolate the breathing end of this rotten root. Killers don’t often know their victims intimately. They always do, by definition.

A lobby. A place of transition. A public place. Floor to ceiling windows, clearly penetrated by casual gaze, yet revealing a backdrop mundane enough to go completely unnoticed. Visible and transitory. Potentially deliberate yet obviously impractical. Rife with evidence. A veritable panopticon. I look up and take note of several surveillance bubbles advertising cameras within. How much of the setting comprised emotion and how much logic? How intentional or reckless is the exhibitionism? Staring up at the cameras I have difficulty believing this is an example of that rare, almost mythical species, the crime of passion. Or at least I suspect that passion, like crimson, is always steeped to some extent in the hideous spectrum of gruesome earth tones before me. Semi clotted blood, and reason befuddled by hormonal intervention.

This, like all things, is a function of systemic behavior and arbitrary imprinting, a volatile alchemy of logic and emotion.


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