by Pete Sutton
I push the door, a dusty footprint in the centre of it, the flimsy lock broken open. The house is in darkness but the streetlamps give enough light to see by. I see the blood, such a lot of blood. And a knife dropped a few feet away from the body. The back door swings in the breeze. I am too late.
I need to check the machine. My hands shaking I open the cellar door. The familiar smell of ozone, burnt electrics, fuel oil and damp assail my nostrils. The machine is still there. Untouched, sparkling amongst the debris, as if a reverse explosion has taken place. It will have to be ready.
I press the button, the machine whirrs, light flashes past. It will work, it will be well, I will get her back. I will save her.
I hear her scream, no time for a key I kick the door open leaving a dusty footprint on it. I see the blood, such a lot of blood. And a knife dropped a few feet away from the body. The back door swings open. Too late. Back to the machine!
I press the button, the machine whirrs, light flashes past.
I open the door quietly and sneak inside. I surprise her, she has a knife. It is dark. I can’t blame her. I watch my blood pool on the floor as she runs out the back door.
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