Adam Colston — Cobalt Blue
He closed his eyes closed and waited. There were never more than a few mere moments of silence in between the ending of one connection and the beginning of the next one. Then he realised something; it was months
since he’d taken the energy and, try as he may, he couldn’t remember who he’d plundered after the mad woman. Had it been that man he’d met in the art gallery that freezing, February day when the pavements were sheathed in ice?
There was a slight moment of disconnection — the telltale funneling at the edge of his mind — and then a new, soundless image bloomed into life.
The image sharpened; a man’s hand washed blood from a filleting knife under a tap.
Oh, he thought hopefully, a butcher? I don’t remember a butcher…
Then the man’s thoughts tore through his mind like shrapnel through unprotected flesh.
…send the video off later… more fun than I could have dreamed of… better stop her bleeding though… make her last a while longer…
The man half-turned to look at a woman lashed to a heavy chair in a windowless room. A harsh, overhead bulb shone down on her. Blood ran from her mutilated hand and pooled on the concrete floor below. Her body jerked against the ropes, her head twisted back and forth, her mouth worked feverishly as though she screamed or begged.
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