Tell others about this story! Over 300 choices.So there we stood, silently. Our eyes locked on each other’s as my dead best friend lay between us. The blood from her head began to escape quicker than I had anticipated. The crimson tide’s effusive force inched far too close for comfort towards my satin heels. I took two small steps back, eyes still on the culprit. Mirror neurons fired in his brain as he followed my lead and, too, stepped back from my besties internal matters. The thick air that filled the abandoned factory infiltrated our lungs with each breath. Bounteous particles of dust and asbestos congregated in all four lungs, setting up shop for a malignant metastasis in years to come.
I took another step back. The murderer followed.
We continued this dance around death for a few minutes, our tango of lost life. He opened his pale lips as if to say something, but closed them abruptly. His eyes shifted from mine for a brief moment towards the bullet hole is my dead friend’s skull. His vision ricocheted from his crime and connected back to my view. Pupil’s dilated and eyes wide open, his mouth hung agape once again. I was sure we would sit in drab silence forever, but this time he spoke.
“I thought she was you.”
“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Sanders.”
Our words too calm for the crime that had just taken place. In my peripheral vision I realized I had missed my cue. Red rushed past my heels that sat like dams. My self-absorbed mind could only conjure up one question, does blood stain satin? Already in the midst of bloodshed, I stepped towards Mr. Sanders.
“But me or her, you’re still a murderer,” I insisted with ruby red lips.
“But at least if it had been you, I would have gotten paid.”
“Endearing, really.”
I could see every muscle in his body tighten as my steps neared his trembling flesh. The gun sat quietly in the darkness of one of the rooms four corners. It seemed now the only weapon Mr. Sanders had was persuasion. I stepped over my friend’s corpse and stood a few inches from the man who had wanted me dead just moments before.
“And I only wanted you dead for the money, nothing personal.” He spoke quickly, as if time were running out.
To be honest, I couldn’t really be that upset. He wasn’t the only henchmen my ex-husband had sent to destroy me. Getting half of his billion dollar estate and winning his stupid mutt in the divorce triggered something in Fredrick I would never have imagined existed. If I would have known he could be this cruel, I might have actually liked him during our eight year, prosaic romance.
I inched closer yet to the still shuddering Mr. Sanders.
“Do you know what I need?”
“What?” His voice shook.
“A drink.”
“What?”
“Care to join me?”
I didn’t let him answer as I marched out of the room, leaving perfect size 6 footprints in the bright pattern of best friend’s blood.
I turned the corner and leaned against a large pillar. Mr. Sanders sat in the room a few moments, undoubtedly questioning my motives and replaying the scene in his head. But within a matter of seconds he was facing me, his back against some dusty, mold ridden wall as he lit up a cigarette. I pulled the elastic from my ponytail and watched his eyes follow the movement of my long, blonde hair.
A few minutes ago I was contemplating what to do with dear old Mr. Sanders. Should I seduce him, befriend him, kill him? All were plausible considering one of Fredrick’s ‘workers’ had fallen victim to each scenario. But now, as I watched his eyes entranced in my luxurious waves, I had arrived at my conclusion.
I placed my right hand on my thigh, pulling my little black dress up a few inches. Mr. Sander’s eyes widened with amusement, his trembling hands were finally steadied. I continued to pull at the material until a flask was revealed between garter and milky flesh. Mr. Sander’s licked his lips as I pulled out the metal and placed the spout to my lips. After a few swigs I passed the liquor to my ex-husband’s accomplice. He copied my swigs in both number and duration, and then rested his eyes on mine. I could almost see the delusional, perverse fantasies dancing in his head.
I inched closer in gory heals. No time was wasted as he placed his left arm around my waist and pulled me tightly into him. He began kissing my neck with wondering hands. I tried to step back but he pulled me closer still.
“Mr. Sanders,” the words fell from my lips with seduction and betrayal.
He loosened his grip, intrigued, and I stepped back.
“You got another surprise under there?” He asked as his eyes fell to the hem of my dress.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
My lips folded into a mischievous half smile. I reached my right hand over to my left thigh. I slid my dress up, slipped my fingers between skin and garter, once again.
“What is it?”
I pulled out a small scalpel, by the handle, and rested the blade up the length of my arm, hidden from view. With furrowed eyebrows Mr. Sanders stepped forward in hopes of catching a glimpse. I pushed him back against the rotting wall, hard. He looked perplexed, aroused and worried in one humorous expression. A thousand thoughts were birthed per second. They tumbled on low within that meager brain of his. I saw each one race just behind murderous eyes as small beads of sweat began to form within each pore of his forehead. I leaned forward and bit his lip, holding it tightly between my teeth until I tasted blood. A tiny whimper resonated from his vocal folds and fell from his quivering mouth. He pushed me back with one hand and held the other at his wound. His eyes darted back and forth between mine. He curled the fingers that sat uneasy at my chest. His hands began to tremble again as he stared hard into my eyes. He could see my thoughts, too, perfectly complex and neatly aligned. Should I seduce him, befriend him, kill him? His eyes squinted as he tried to predict my next move. His hand shifted steadily from his lips and reached to his pocket. As his fingers dug deep, then began to escape, I made my move.
I jolted my dominant hand upwards and jerked my elbow to my right. Palm side facing Mr. Sanders, the scalpel slid across his skin and slit his throat before he could use whatever was in his pocket to finish his initial job. He fell to his knees with blood rushing past both hands that grasped the grotesque, yet effective, method of murder. The mundane gasping lasted about a minute until he fell to the floor, finally dead. I leaned over and pulled at his fingers. All that sat tightly in his fist was a crushed box of cigarettes.
I stood above my lifeless assailant and dusted off my dress. I brushed my blonde locks over my shoulder and looked at the crime scene. My lips pursed as my eyes connected with the molding wall, the backdrop to my crime. The blood that had sprayed from killer, turned victim’s throat and up the amoeba inhabited drywall seemed to stretch much further than anticipated.
I turned from the atrocious display of murder and deceit and began to walk away, leaving perfect size 6 footprints in the vibrant shade of stranger’s liquid vitals.
End
Bio: Anda is an aspiring writer who recently received her first publication. Her life is consumed by all things horror. She is currently in the process of obtaining her bachelor's degree in creative writing and hopes to have her first novel out next year.