An Attempt At A Short Story

An attempt to write a short story. Inspired by a book and movie recently read.

Everything was silent. The house was empty. Things were a bit messier than usual, as if the kids had playmates visit the house. I walk towards the kitchen. Broken plates, shattered glasses, an overturned table, spilled Coca-Cola. Now this is a mess. I walk through the kitchen, through the seemingly war-torn place of the house and out into the hallway leading to my kids’ bedrooms.

"Hello?" I call out. No response. Maybe they haven’t gone home yet.

I open their rooms, check each one out. First, the one on my left. Everything was in order. The neatly arranged bed sheet, the blanket folded seamlessly, pillows stacked properly, everything was fine. So I go out of the room and close the door gently.

I walk slowly across the hall to my older son’s room. Nothing’s wrong. The Gibson Les Paul, the electric guitar I gave him for his 18th birthday, was on its stand, with his Marshall amplifier beside it. The room was a bit more disorganized, but that’s the usual arrangement he has. Messy. Typical rockstar mindset.

Then I went out, turned right, walked a bit, and went up the stairs to my left. Near the top, I see blood stains. I reached the last step and turned right. On the wall, more blood, the splatter you see when someone near a wall was shot. But this one wasn’t too big a splat. A few more steps and I see my bedroom. I know for a fact that my wife’s inside. I turn the knob and push the door open.

Lying on the bed, bloodied, bruised, battered, is my wife. Tears spring from my eyes. I approach the body. It was already in rigor mortis. Stiff. Cold. I hold her by her head, and I feel the exit point of the bullet. By the foot of the bed was the weapon, a revolver holding 5 rounds. The gun was empty at this time.

Outside I can hear the sirens of the ambulance and the police cars. Pretty soon I can see the red and blue lights emanating from these vehicles. I feel so weak. The tears continue to roll out.

The paramedics come in, followed soon by the cops. They take the body on a stretcher and wheel it out of the house. “Follow me downstairs, sir,” one of the cops ordered me. We settled in the patio in front of the entrance. As I was staring into the officer’s eyes, my body was shaking with dread and with regret. I may spend time in jail, maybe for life.

It was all my fault. I shouldn’t have shot my wife and killed her.

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