Killingspree


She woke, cursing God for not taking her during the night; a daily ritual.

Rising slowly, opening her eyes, swinging her legs over the side of the bed until her feet felt the floor, then standing; it was all such a chore.  Not again, Lord; let it not have happened again! She sighed, stepped forward.  She took hold of the handle of her bedroom door, but hesitated.  Get it together, girl! Another sigh – one of resignation – and she opened the door.

As soon as she stepped through she could smell it.  The coppery odor she had become accustomed to.  Loathed.  Feared.  Her eyes watered, but she forced herself forward.  Turn left, down the hall, past the opening to the front room, to the end.  Bathroom door in front of her, another door (the dreaded door) to her left.  Nature had to be satisfied first (A short reprieve!), so into the bathroom she went.

Ignoring the pooled water beside the tub (and its slightly red tint), she did her business, washed her face and hands – repeatedly, until she felt she had steeled herself, and was ready to face it.  She left the bathroom.

Through the (dreaded) door to her brother’s bedroom she went.  He didn’t sleep here anymore; not since their parents had died.  She didn’t know where he slept.  He still used the room, though.

Every Saturday night.





About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)