Short Story: The Crimson Bath

August 17, 2022 Colin Lawson Comments 0 Comment

The bathroom smelled of lavender and blood. Steam curled in the air, masking the metallic tang only slightly, but Eleanor didn’t mind. She dipped her hands into the warm, crimson-tinged water, watching as the colour deepened, swirling like silk in a summer breeze. The body in the bath was still now—limp, obedient, ready.

She exhaled slowly, savouring the moment. There was a rhythm to this, a ritual. The world outside was chaotic, unpredictable, but here, in the glow of dim candlelight, everything made sense. Every cut, every careful separation of flesh from bone, was an act of quiet devotion.

Eleanor picked up the hacksaw, tracing its edge along the man’s wrist. The night was just beginning.

The Crimson Bath

Eleanor hummed softly as she worked, the sound barely audible over the drip-drip of crimson water swirling down the drain. The scent of lavender and iron filled the air, the aroma of the iron-rich blood was thick and cloying, but she hardly noticed. She had done this before.

The bathroom, pristine in its white-tiled perfection, was her temple. The bath, her altar. And the man slumped lifeless in it—he was just another offering.

She wiped a stray drop of blood from her cheek, then positioned the hacksaw against his wrist. The first cut was always the hardest, the teeth of the blade biting into flesh and tendon, but she had learned to be patient. A steady hand, controlled movements—it was all about precision. The body was a puzzle, and she took great pleasure in taking it apart, piece by piece.

As she severed the hand, Eleanor let out a contented sigh. She admired the way the pale fingers floated in the water for a moment before sinking beneath the surface. There was something almost poetic about it.

The man—she never learned their names—had been foolish enough to trust her. They always were. A charming smile, a tilt of the head, a soft laugh in a dimly lit bar—it was all she needed. He had followed her home like a moth to the flame, oblivious to the danger, to the fact that she had already prepared the plastic sheeting and bleach.

Eleanor reached for the cleaver next. Smaller joints could be popped out of place and cut around with less effort but the larger joints required more force. With a swift, practiced motion, she brought it down onto his knee. The crack of bone was satisfying, almost musical.

She would take her time tonight. There was no rush. No one ever suspected her. Who would? A woman like her—petite, well-mannered, graceful—was not the sort of monster they imagined lurking in the shadows.

As she worked, she allowed herself a small smile. Tomorrow, she would dispose of the pieces, scattering them across the city like breadcrumbs. And then, when the urge returned, she would go hunting again.

But for now, she revelled in the quiet intimacy of her craft.

The bath, once a place of cleansing, had become something far more beautiful. A masterpiece of red and white.

And Eleanor was the artist.