As he stood in the bathroom in front of the basin he looked at his hands. They were soaked in blood up until his elbows. His shirt contained several rips along with a few blood stains. Great evening to wear white he thought. His face seemed to be missing the right half as it had been ripped open by his unwilling victim. As he violently scrubbed his hands clean he regained control over his own body. He had exited a trance in which he had been corrupted of senses in his body. All save for one: his optical sense. He had been forced to watch as he grabbed a young girl, about 16 or 17, from the street, mutilate, tortured and killed her. He had taken her to an old abandoned factory building where he had tied her up, he had to after she clawed at him slashing open the right half of his face with her long red nails, amputated her left leg, cutting her hair, putting new makeup on her to match that of his ex- girlfriend and finally slowly taken a knife and, with the slow intensity of child birth, slit her throat. As he began thinking back on the events of that evening he scrubbed even faster, attempting to have the feeling of guilt wash away along with the blood on his arms and face, but to no avail. 
After a long session of tirelessly scrubbing his hands, his arms, his face and his clothing he walked to bed with the feeling of impending doom looming at him just over the threshold of the door. Passing the mirror he heard of voice mumble something softly. “What?!” he demanded. Silence, his suite was empty, not even the sound of dripping water. He looked out of the window at the great 315 hectare in front of his that was Central Park. 
Staring out of the window sipping on cognac he heard a voice again, clearer this time, “Enjoy what I did?” He spun around looking around the room. In front of him the white painted walls melted into the whit carpeting to create, what seemed like, an unending space broken only by the dark ebony four post bed. As he stood and listened his hand began shaking, the room had gotten an eerie feeling, almost like he was not alone. Out of the corner of the room a voice cracked, “You know it didn’t bother you as much as you’d wish to admit. You watched that news report over and over and over, I felt the sense of pleasure you were getting from seeing that heartless b**** just lying there, lifeless. You may think you have the rest of the world fooled, but you can’t fool yourself.” Trying to locate the source of the phantom voice his hand began shaking, the glass of cognac, now half, shaking violently from left to right, bitter close to falling. 
He began picturing the scene from the previous evening, the girl, the blood, the knife. In a moment of weakness he sunk to his knees, the glass held tightly in his left hand shattering. The sharp shooting pain was soon followed by a new, warm feeling. He looked down to see the first drop of blood falling, slowly, to his snow white carpet staining it a carmine red. He watched as more and more dripped from his hand, flabbergasted, unable to move a single muscle in his body. Slowly he regained his composure, walking briskly to the bathroom. Every step he took the bodiless, phantom voice haunted him, reminding him of what “he had done”. 
The bathroom was designed to look out over the city of New York, opposite the view of undisturbed nature in Central Park. As he looked across the city at the thousands of little lights illuminating the endless expanse of New York he wondered, how many others were harbouring a dark and dirty secret?