The Caretaker

I have walked these halls in immense joy and sorrow. I painted these walls with the blood of many sacrifices. Some call them victims but, that is a lie. They all gave up living wholly by their own choices, some thrust themselves upon my serrated blades while others tore themselves apart until their strength was abated. Either that or I’m mass murderer. But I think not. For I am a dedicated man of the crimsoned cloth. I have never sullied my hands with virgins or elderly people wanting in years.

The young, it is their blood that paints the walls better than anything. It spreads more evenly over the woodchip paper than blood from any other source. The soft muscles of children are quite resilient, which aids the application. Why, I am convinced that children were designed with this in mind. There are others in this institution that choose to blend in a little excrement which is sacrilegious and just downright wasteful as we do not get many children visitors down these darkened corridors.

I cannot quite put my finger on what it is exactly that scares the little ones. But, I’m sure that one day, should one of the precious darlings fail to discharge their gift then we shall come to know. But, until then we will just have to be satisfied with their cries of delight as we extract their muscles in order to complete our esteemed and noble task of redecorating the halls of this once distinguished hospital.

I fear that I most go now as I hear the patter of tiny feet approaching my door, I must act swiftly if I to get enough blood to finish my cell and have a little over with which to dress my salad.