blood trail - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
If a man had pulled a finger by force and painted with it upon the cooked earth, the bloody trail couldn't be less obvious. It was already browning with those sickly matted clumps that could be fragments of what was once human.
Had the wood not been so aged and bleached the blood trail might have been missed. It was almost mid-morning and the sun was bright, unshielded by clouds. The splatters were well spaced apart, suggesting that either the bleeding wasn't heavy or they were moving quickly. Mac crouched to take a closer look. From the splatter pattern he assumed it was the latter, and that could mean the victim didn't get too far.
Against the pristine snow the blood trail was stark. Small droplets had tumbled and spread into the white making arcs of scarlet. Mac looked down at the foot-prints, a small hiking shoe. His mind took the evidence and recreated a picture, a girl or a small man with injuries to their arms, blood flying outward from flailing limbs, moving the way panicked people do, quickly, stumbling, with frequent turns to check for their attacker.
The trail of blood soon disappeared into the forest floor, the reddish brown drops quite invisible to the human eye. Mac stood to one side, allowing the photographer to take the evidence shots, calling in for a tracker dog to be dispatched.
The casual laughter of the boys died fast, guillotined from their mouths. A blood trail led from the doorway into the house. It wasn't a few careless drops from a bleeding nose or a cut finger; there must have been a couple of pints making the jagged red river and the splashes on the walls.
As Sabrina ran her blood was her worst enemy, cascading to the ground in large splatters, creating a "bread crumb trail." Her only hope was the river, to move upstream as her scent was washed downwards. With no drops on the muddy bank she might have a slim chance, a reason to hope and struggle onward.
At first she did not notice it. But as she lowered her head in suspicion of the stillness of the house, she staggered back at the sight of the red liquid on the floor. The color swirled in her mind, making her feel light while curiousity aroused in her mind. Her glistening eyes followed the line, almost forcefully, like it had a mind of its own as some would say. The red liquid however, was still flowing through the tiny cracks on the floor. It was heading towards her, and every limb in her body screamed for her to run. She did not listen though. She waited for it to touch her bare feet and experienced the tiny tremors that shot through her.
The blood trail was so old it had at first been mistaken for dried coffee, only the slightest of reddish tints had caused Mac to order swabbing and analysis. It had been from the missing woman alright, and judging by the volume she hadn't left in good shape.
She ran, ran as fast as she could. She didn't know if they were still behind her or not; she didn't want to find out. Her wounds left a blood trail, droplets of crimson falling to the ground. She hoped the rain would wash it away, hide it in the wet earth, conceal her path.