This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Inara Reynolds
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Book cover by Inara Reynolds
Jellybones Part Six
October 30th, 2016
I woke up late for work. Sam had taken the alarm clock with him downstairs when he had gone to sleep on the couch. Normally, he made sure I was up for work every morning since he usually left earlier than I did. I could hear the television blaring in the living room, sounded like NCIS:LA. Why didn’t Sam turn it off, better yet, why didn’t he wake me up for work?
I went downstairs; I could not smell the familiar scent of coffee filling up the landing like I could ever morning. Something was not right.
I walked through the foyer, on my way to the living room and noticed the front door was open. I could see my neighbor in her front yard, adding some new fall decorations, scarecrows, and mums. She saw me and waved. I waved back at her before noticing the blood on my nightgown. I shut the door.
As I entered the living room, I could smell the sweet aroma of rotting fruit. I started to panic at the smell. I had learned over the past few days that the now familiar scent was the same fragrance blood gave off the first few hours after death.
I could not move. I stood in the foyer looking into our living room. “Sam?” I called out.
Nothing… He did not answer me.
I could not force myself to go into the room and look on the sofa. I went into the bathroom instead. I turned on the light and shut the door behind me. I rested my back against it for a moment, trying to shut the world and what could be waiting for me on the couch out.
I could not breathe; I began gasping for air as I went into a full panic attack.
I managed to pull myself together somehow. I needed to call my boss and tell him I was going to be late. I was sure he was going to fire me.
As I turned to leave the bathroom, I caught my reflection in the mirror. That can’t be me!
I leaned against the sink staring into the mirror. Blood was splattered on my face, and some of it had smeared as I had slept. I had blood in my hair and down my neck. I backed away from the sink, looking down at myself; I had blood all over my arms.
I wanted to scream, but I could not stop looking at myself in the mirror, memorized by my countenance. The blood was beginning to dry, coagulating in crimson patterns on my face. It reminded me of my lipstick, only smeared, looking sickly glamorous to me. Sam always liked my lipstick. I always felt empowered when I wore it and people took notice of me.
Sam was dead. His intestines and other organs were strewn about like a child’s toys from their chest. He looked peaceful despite the gruesome scene except for the fact his eyes were open, staring blankly at the TV.
My poor Sam… what had I done? Did I actually do it? I could not have done this to him; it’s just not in me! I loved him… Was I still dreaming?
I should have called the cops. Instead, I went upstairs and changed my clothes. I googled the whereabouts of the old gristmill and printed out the directions. Whoever had called me last night had murdered Sam. I was going to find them.
Thank you for reading! Creative and helpful criticism is welcome! Find typos in this draft? Let me know!