A sudden eruption of curses echoed down the maze of corridors. Within the small, white-washed room, tension seemed to flourish like the scent of wildflowers caught on a desolate breeze.

            He was furious. Frustration coursed through His blood stream as red-hot murder flushed His face. Rage, the kind that could kill a man with one look flashed through His eyes.

            The Victim sat there, unmoving.

            Nothing could stop His anger from escalating to horrifying heights. With a shout of pained rage, He grabbed the Victim up in His hands. There were tables near at hand. The temptation of them drew in His focus. The Victim was defenseless as He began the beating. The sound of pain and torture filled the room, clouding it with a throbbing haze. Pounding could be heard as the Victim was thrown again and again against the wooden surfaces.

            What appeared to be small wounds began to show themselves on the sides of the Victim. Streams of red ooze began to flow from these wounds. It stained the tables and, as the beating continued, a few drops splashed to the ground below.

            The Victim was small – hardly a threat to anyone – especially to someone with the size ratio of Him compared to that of the Victim. Yet this had all started because the Victim had refused to give Him what He wanted. He had tried to take from the Victim, squeezing until His fingers had left dents in various parts of the Victim’s form. Now the Victim was being used as a piñata. The already altered form of the Victim was slowly becoming more misshapen from the force of each impact against the table.

            Blind fury flashed through His eyes. Still the Victim resisted Him. He couldn’t get what He wanted, and it was beginning to drive Him absolutely mad.

            With a howl of frustration, He hurled the Victim against the wall.

            A heavy silence clung to the halls. Fear seemed to be lurking in the walls themselves. Tension began to build, when suddenly a sickening crack could be heard. The sound was like that of a skull being broken. It was as though a human head had been shattered against a wall. The horror of the impact was strong. The scent of death started to creep down the very halls where silence had once hung.

            A red mark had been splashed against the wall. Streams of the liquidy ooze ran down from the stain and dropped into a slowly growing puddle on the floor.

            He was getting angrier. All reason flooded out of His mind leaving only the ever-rising frustration. He could take it no more. The feeling of not being able to get what He wanted coursed through His body on the surge of adrenaline.

            Holding the Victim above His head, He grabbed a knife and threw His burden to the ground. With a shout of almost joyous victory, He plunged the weapon into the Victim. He thrashed, cut, and sliced over and over. He stabbed at His target mercilessly, the murder flaring behind His irises.

            Eventually, the adrenaline drained from His muscles. He held the Victim up after the last stroke, still dangling from the blade. Then He let the now mangled form drop to the cold tiled floor. He then took His leave, holding the red painted knife in His hand as evidence. His hands themselves were stained with a thick layer of red. A few drops fell off His hands and the knife. He looked down at the small puddles then left, disappearing down the hall.

            A stranger walked down the hall. On the floor he saw a few drops of red lying before the entrance to one of the classrooms. Curiously, he peered into the room. A terrible smell wafted up to his nostrils causing him to nearly retch.

            The room was covered in red. The walls, the floors, everything. All had been painted the ugly, grotesque shade.

            He stepped into the room. In the middle of the floor lay a mangled, unrecognizable heap. Cautiously, he picked up what was obviously the Victim. He wiped away some of the red; just enough so he could see the Heinz Ketchup label. He looked around to see if he could find any clues as to why someone would act so violently towards a ketchup bottle.

            As he looked around, his eyes came to rest on an open sandwich consisting of mustard, salami, and pickles.

            Eww, he thought.

            The ketchup was probably the next ingredient. Why then had the bottle been so badly mistreated?

            The cap was surprisingly still on. Carefully he unscrewed the lid. There, placed neatly over the hole, was the safety sealer. Understanding settled into his eyes along with a hint of disbelief. He then looked back over at the sandwich.

            “I see,” he said softly.