Last Sunday, I was watching a movie with Eric. Muffled screams of pain and agony came from the other side of the door, pulling us away from our mild conversation. I placed the can of beer on the table softly, getting myself off the couch to inspect the situation outside.
I ambled across the room, cautiously aware of the eerie silence. Shuffling sounds were heard; I tilted my head only to find an empty couch.
Assuming he was gone for a quick trip to the loo, I returned to my place – forgetting about my getting up – and extinguished the still burning cigarette on the black glass ashtray, which was brimmed with flakes of ashes and stubs.
Dismissing the grey smoke swimming over the olive rexine sofa, I opened the full carton that lay beside the half-finished can and lit one. Taking a long drag, I made to sit back down until hard bangs echoed through the hallways of the house, baffling me for a moment.
As confused as I was, I still padded to the mahogany door of the master bedroom, twisted the golden knob and took a quick peek.
Darkness welcomed me.
Cold air hit my face, pushing down my fringes. Disappointed with the lack of response, I shut the door with a click and plopped down on the pile of cushions.
Finishing the fag in my mouth, I pressed it down on the ashpan while looking towards the main restroom, wondering what's taking him so long.
The stillness was ghastly and unsettling, so I turned off the 'mute' option of the box.
Music blared through the speakers, drowning out any other sound. A tranquil and taciturn buff man's shadow formed on the wall opposite to the washroom's door. Tight-lipped and his eyes dead, he patted the pillows twice before plonking down on the love seat.
He resumed his previous actions, lighting a roll-up and trapping it between his violet lips. He was quite sober - I grabbed that from his actions. I, on the other hand, was tipsy.
With a sudden urge to piss, I sloppily jogged to the Jacks, hastily slammed the door and pulled up the lid. Unzipping my fly, I released a puff of air: a contented sigh. Shivers ran up my spine from the sudden change in temperature and my eyes fell upon a red substance.
It was gradually and insignificantly flowing down from behind the curtains. My stomach dropped to my feet and I tucked myself back in my trousers. My curiosity was at its peak and I pushed back the vinyl drapes.
To my utter horror, I found Cheyenne, my wife, on the floor: bare with her shirt and skirt torn to shreds. Her raven hair was a tangled mess and her once shining emerald eyes were blank and staring ghoulishly into mine. My legs were noodles and I stumbled back a few steps, my eyes watering at the sight from both fear and anger.
I fell down with a thud as I noticed a large knife stabbed deeply into her throat. From the looks of it, three bullets, at the least, were embedded far into her left breast.
"O-Oh, my God."
I crawled over to my wife, trying to stop the cascading blood and plasma as a few drops gently trickled down her slender, blistered and, blue fingers. Her lips were cracked and white. Dry blood was her only armour now.
Tears slipped out my eyes. My lips trembled as I held her close to me, in my arms. As I rocked her back and forth, chanting 'no' repeatedly in hopes of it being a dream only, they were crashed as I felt a big presence behind me.
I turned my head quickly - I swear I heard my neck crack - and froze as I looked up at a smirking scruffy man. A wild and dangerous look was plastered on the dark man's face, a deadly axe in his hands.
I began backing away with shaking hands but Eric wouldn't stop nearing me.
"Doh-Don't do this, Eh-Eric. Please. We'll geh-get you some help," I pleaded, but he wasn't having any of it.
The last I ever saw was his axe swimming in strongly, slicing me exactly where my beloved was knifed in, but not before saying,
"Your turn now."