This is the opening part to a novel/short story I have been working on. It’s been a while since I’ve shared any writing on here- so I wanted to share this. Hope you like it and it leaves you wanting to read more.
It was like an earthquake had gone through our lives. A quick, bloody jolt that left us sprawled in disbelief and fear that followed a slow tidal wave that broke our hearts.
He showed up covered in thick red. There was no knock at the door. I opened it by chance, almost like a tingling spider-sense. And there he was. Covered in thick red, standing completely still, not even asking to come in.
We knew what had happened. His silent face told the story of the argument and the pounding fists and the drunken laughter sprinkled with screams.
Theirs, like most, wasn’t the healthiest relationship.
We knew what had happened. His eyes dark and sullen, releasing his soul up to the porch light in an effort to dodge heavenly forgiveness.
“Give him a towel.” She tells me.
I don’t know why we acted so calmly, so complacent. It could have been shock, the lack of surprise. It just didn’t seem to strike the right chords at first.
He sat on the couch, still sticky and red, and watched the carpet. She made us coffee and no one asked questions, there were no answers. Even, later on, when the cops came around asking questions neither of us spoke up.
There was no condoning the murder. We were upset by it, of course, but it was like a mallet hit- numbness crawled on over, touching everything with its pins and needles. The three of us floated through our lives, unaware of anything or anyone else around us. No one else was needed. We were a secret sect held together by a murder no one need speak of.
There was no “What happened?” or “Are you alright?” We already knew the answers we needed to. So we just sat there, in the half light drinking coffee waiting for something to break the silence.