The beauty of the scalpel. The clean cut through tissue as if it were butter. Butter in layers and as each layer is penetrated and sliced the blade would need a little more pressure, but only at first. Once it is pressed through the layer it is back to the butter. When the scalpel is removed almost no trace can be found at first. Unless you know what to look for, noticing the thin line running down the skin is virtually impossible. For a little while that is, until the warm red blood pushes through and widen the line to a gap. Outside in the cold the opening of the gap is followed by steam as if the soul is escaping the body along with the blood. And if the cut was made just right that is exactly what happens.

Unfortunately, what the scalpel offers in beauty it takes away from the wonderful experience of sheer brutality. Of using bare hands to pry open an already existing hole in a body and sometimes, just sometimes, the animal, the predator, the monster takes over to such an extent that hands alone will be enough. Nails and bony fingers eagerly eating their way through flesh, the muscles in the arms and chest contracting, almost convulsing. When patience no longer exists and bones stab through the last bit and are rewarded with the warmth of what's inside. Sharp nails scraping against muscles and organs, tissue sticking underneath them. Enough DNA to lead to a conviction, but that matters little when warm blood pumps through veins underneath the skin and with each heartbeat pulsates out the newly-torn holes and onto the fingertips. In the cold night or a cold room, the soul is visible as it escapes the gaping wound and the crimson-coloured hand.

Beauty and brutality. Beauty in brutality. And you are all beautiful to me.