It's dark outside, and cold breezes blow across ruffled waters

He licked up the cheek, his moist tongue pressing in to the hollow, pushing the flesh back. His hand reached round and caressed the top of the spine and the cheekbone on the other side. His mouth moved up, and his lips nuzzled the lustrous straight black hair across the temples. He stepped back, moving his lips away, and stroked the hair, then bent in, tracing his tongue right the way down the arm from the bone of the shoulder to reach the fingers and push between them, and along the lines of the bones...1

Now his other hand was caressing the stomach and hips, those expanses of flesh. A few fingers grazed and slipped inside, the nails leaving slight marks in the pale skin. He stroked, then pulled, and finally TORE! He ripped off a chunk of flesh, tearing, tearing. Something swift built within. He pulled back and started punching the white flesh all around the gaping wound sliced into the stomach. His fist thudded with a thwack. The flesh did not mark, nor bruise, it was too long dead. It just pushed downwards in the indent of knuckles, or waved upwards in strips where nails attacked the white meat. The man pulled up the big, serrated knife from the seat beside him and stabbed, ripped and hacked it into the flesh, massive gashes appearing into and all around the wound. He stabbed in, pulled out again, flung the knife away and hammered one fist out BANG into the face, slamming it sideways to stare crookedly at the floor. He lay back, breathing hard, his mouth bunched up and his eyes alight.2

He stood, walked to the door, left it a fraction open... switched off the overhead bulb, and curled up on the floor, half on a thin rug. The corpse sat ajar on the large chair, still staring intently at a stop just by the man’s outflung right foot.3