The silence in the dark and dingy room

The decaying old oak door stabbed the silence in the room, as it opened. It sounded like nails on a blackboard, the sound that sends shivers down your spine. A sudden stench of an infested swamp cluttered the room. Deep and powerful footsteps echoed on the four walls, belongs to a tall man with a figure like a bull. With every footstep taken his feet were indented in the dust, as if he was walked on snow. The man was dragging an old feeble bloke across the floor with his beard running along side him. Two other men crab walk in carrying a wooden headrest, and a sword. A sword that has taken more lives than disease itself.

The old man's head was placed upon the rest. The bull-like man pulled a shiny black mask over his face with great dignity. He picked up the magnificent sword, even in this room the sword still glowed. The man was waiting for his life to be ended, he pleading his innocence.

Death was sliding from the damp lifeless walls, looking upon his next victim. His smirk was growing bigger by the second. Almost impatient he crawled down onto the floor. Blood surrounding him from the previous criminals. The droplets were starting to set, each footstep taken vibrated them. Death now staring his next child in the eyes coldly.

The sword is drawn back behind the masked man's head. It swoops down fiercely. Almost in slow motion the sword breaks the surface of the skin. Then cracks the spine. The head fell and hit the ground with a hard thud, piercing my eardrums. Blood spurted from his headless body, staining the dust. The blood now trickling. Now stopped, and the room silent once more. Death is pleased and disappears into the moist, misty air. Until the next time.