10 November, 2010

bloody placemat

From its undersurface, it dripped.

The red gloop fell in little drops from between the cracks of the twisted grass from which the mat was made. The smell was sweet, like summer's afterthought and no sound was made by the falling red baubles.

Looking up at the glass table, from the floor, a long smear and puddle could be seen, leading up to where the placemat drooped a little over the table's edge. Nearby a plate on which there had been a half-eaten sandwich and an upturned coffe mug. The dim glass revealed a small apartment. Neat, save for the coffee table. Precise, save for the growing stains on the floor and the knife beyond the peripheral vision. Even the phone had been carefully replaced after the call had been made. Nothing else had been touched.

The silence was comforting after the short battle. On arriving home before, it had been eery. Something had been wrong. The carpet hairs at the front door had been bent in the wrong direction. Someone had been waiting, but the waiting tension had been put down to the unease that had ridden the car back along with the day's stress and the thought that perfectionism was like paranoia. There was no paranoia here because, how would they know of this place?

Quiet breathing. No need to panic.

The door creaked. A little breeze followed by a BANG from the front door. So. The front door had been left unlocked.

A cacophany of noise.
Distant wailing sirens.
Blurred faces.
Babbling noise.
White noise.
Mouths moving.
Hands pushing.
Hands pulling.
Sharp jabs of pain.
Lancing lightning.
Gasping breaths.

Should have known.
Should have guessed.
Should have been faster.
Should have been wiser.
The warnings had come.
Notes had turned up.


This is what happens when threats are ignored.

White noise.
Blurred faces coming into focus.
The smell of antiseptic.
White walls.
White bed.
Hard bed.
Rigid sheets.


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