A murder scene

His mind had been in a blurred fog when he had arrived. Terribly blurred. Even after the fact he could hardly remember what truly happened. He remembered the feeling he had. The itch. The terrible, blurry itch.
She stood in the kitchen, being her lovely self. Swaying slightly to the charming music on the small, crackling radio. Her hands were sudsy from the dishes and a towel carelessly tossed over her shoulder. Sweetly swaying to the charming music.
And he was behind her, his arms going around her gently. Kissing her hair softly, he had sighed. How wonderful she was.
Then the itch. It started in the small of his back. Restless, almost painful. Growing. No, spreading. Like a small creature. No trail or pattern, it just moved. Up his back. To his shoulder blades. It waited there. He felt the impending spread. Down his arms. Ugh, it was terrible now, driving him insane.
Trying to rid himself of the itch, he let go of her suddenly. He stepped back. Why was everything so blurry? Was she speaking? Yes…. She was speaking to him. He lovely hair had fallen in front of her face. He smiled at her and reached up to tuck the hair behind her ears.
Then the itch arrived. His hands exploded with the insane restless tingle. Uncontrollably so. They twitched—stiffened—tightened. Terror engulfed his heart. Terror that blinded his already blurred, foggy mind. But he knew what was happening. He knew and didn’t—couldn’t—stop it.
Those hands, terrible itching hands, moved suddenly to her beautiful throat. So suddenly, so swiftly. How could they be his? No! Stop! He couldn’t stop them! Fierce beasts, he loathed them. But they moved on, without his commands. To her throat. Tightening. Her screams filled the house. They filled his ears, choked his throat and suffocated him. He cried the whole time. The whole time her life was stifled and forced to extinguish. Forced by his own hands.
He remembered driving too. Her now lifeless, fragile shell lolling in the seat beside him. She looked as a sleeping child. Dead though. Her lips were pale. Her cheeks were pale. She was pale and dead. Flopping around. He tried not to look but the back of his head seemed to force his gaze there. To drink it in. Arsenic to his heart. Soul. Destruction. It killed him thoroughly to recall.
After that, all was dark. He woke up in the field. The grassy field. Empty and sunny, the sky was blue and icy. The sun was bland and empty of warmth. The grass was bright and green, but felt vicious against his skin. His skin? No. Not his skin anymore. Something had taken over and it was not his anymore. But as he moved those terrible hands… he knew “it” was gone. Whatever the itch had been, had left.
Fled the scene.
Those words filled his mind. In panic he turned wildly. And there, in a white box she lay. That same charming dancer. The same lifeless, lolling child-like lover. In the white box. Flimsy cardboard, it wouldn’t even hold her if he tried to carry it. The ugly, deforming bruises were formed and stained her perfect neck. That china doll skin was blemished and tarnished, no longer the flawless, smooth neck it was.
The cold skin was ugly and bruised now.
Terror seemed burned into her soft features.
The screams seemed to hang from her gray lips.
Her hands were limp, but he could see the way her muscles had flinched as her body’s muscles had writhed in suffocation.
His hands felt tainted. Stained. He thought he should be covered in her blood. But no. No blood. There never would be blood either. No blue, pulsating veins. No red flow. No blue, no red.
Blue, red. He could see it now, pulsing at it should have.