“Hello? Hello? Hello- yes, yes I’m
here! I’m here!”
Sarah bit back a sob, her tears streaming down her face at an
impossible speed. “It’s my husband- Ryan. Yes, Ryan Gregory- he’s b-been-“
Sarah tried to swallow the lump in her throat before continuing, “-he’s been
stabbed- f-four times in different places,” she said, not paying the slightest
attention to the stutter that had resurfaced for the first time since she was
six years old.
Sarah jammed the phone to her ear,
clinging to it for dear life. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It had been the
most ordinary day in the world. She was at work, as well as her husband, and
they’d been planning on ordering take out since neither of them felt like
cooking supper. This was a rare occasion (Ryan was a firm believer of home
cooked meals, and so they barely dialed any number for a speedy lunch), and
Sarah was eager to please her husband with as many food containers she managed to haul from Harrods.
She reached her doorstep at around six
o clock, tins and tins of food heating her blistering hands, but before fishing
for her key she noticed something that struck her as odd. The welcome matt was
thrown carelessly from its place, draping the mini garden she planted a few
days ago. She inhaled sharply as realization dawned on her: the key. It was missing.
Sarah brought her hand to her chin and
drummed it nervously. Ryan would never forget his key at home, and he had a
spare in each of his winter coats (keep in mind that he only owned a pair). It was very unlikely
that he’d result to using the skeleton key she’d hidden beneath the matt, and
if he had then he wouldn’t have thrown the matt away in the first place.
Maybe her parents were in town and they
used the key to get themselves in? Sarah shook her head at the prospect. They’d call first, and besides, weren’t they
on that cruise ship somewhere in Scotland?
Sarah bit her lower lip, and checked to
see if the door was locked. She reached a shaky hand towards the knob and twisted it.
The door opened.
So the door wasn’t locked.
This was bad. This was very, very bad.
Sarah took a tentative step forward,
and pushed the door open. The hinges squealed, and Sarah’s hands flew to her
mouth, dropping the two bags of containers she brought along with her.
Time seemed to stand still and her
vision tunneled until the only thing she could see was her husband. On the
floor. Surrounded by a pool of his own blood.
“Ryan!” she screamed, the ground making
rough contact with her knees, but she didn’t care about the pain. She didn’t
care about anything anymore.
“Ryan,” she said more softly, tilting
his chin up. His crystal blue eyes stared at her, but there was no life in
them, and his mouth was slightly parted, revealing teeth slick with blood.
“R-ryan,” she stuttered, chocking back
a sob. This was not happening. This was not happening at all.
She ignored the tears racing down her
face and reached for her phone buried in her satchel (a satchel he had given her a
month ago for their anniversary). Her fingers pushed the emergency number and
she pressed the phone to her ear, waiting for contact.
They told her that a team of
investigators were to shortly arrive at her flat, and that she should remain
calm and not panic. She almost laughed at them. Stay calm? I’ll stay bloody calm
whilst I look at my dead husband for reassurance, thank you very much.
She took quick shallow breaths, making
her faint- she suddenly felt a draft, and tightened her scarf in
an attempt to block out the nipping cold.
“R-ryan,” she repeated, burying her
face in her hands. Sarah sobbed until she felt light headed and dizzy, but
again, she didn’t care about anything anymore. This was Ryan, her husband,
her bestfriend, her high school sweetheart. The man who would do anything and
everything to please his wife- he was gone, and she was never going to see him
again.
Unless she ended her life right this
second- then she’d see him again and they’d be happy forever. Death wouldn’t be
a worry of theirs anymore. She was going to be free. Sarah glanced down at her
scarf, then shifted her gaze to the ceiling fan.
“That isn’t a very good idea. Trust me, I've tried.”
Sarah quickly turned around to find a
rather tall man in a leather jacket leaning stiffly against the wall. His ears were on the large side and he had
very hard eyes. The eyes of a soldier sent back from war.
“Get back!” she yelled, bringing her
hands to her ears. She was suddenly in a feeble position, slowly rocking back
and forth.
The man edged closer to her, but he
kept his distance. He raised both his hands in surrender, making sure she saw
that they were empty. “I’ve got nothin’ on me, am afraid. Only a screw driver,”
he said softly, bringing out the small tool. Sarah noticed he had a thick
northern accent. Her parents were from the northern area. Something- a gut
feeling- told her that this man wasn’t going to harm her and that she shouldn’t
be afraid of him. She sniffed, slowly getting up from the ground, ignoring her
blood soaked dress pants.
“Y-you didn’t k-kill him,” she said, but it wasn’t a
question. The man nodded his head, coming closer to her. She flinched, and
stumbled backwards.
“I already told yeh, yeh daft thing,
that am not goin' teh hurt yeh,” he said gently, pocketing his screwdriver.
“Am going to have a quick look. Is that okay with yeh?” he asked her, his gaze
flicking from her to her husband. Sarah shook her head. “G-get away f-from
him,” she whispered, swallowing the lump dodged in her throat.
He looked at her with crestfallen, pale
eyes, and then rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “He was stabbed- four
times by the looks of it,” he said, more to himself than Sarah, but she nodded
anyway. He kneeled beside the body, dabbing his index finger with the blood
spilled on the floor. He sniffed it cautiously, before dropping his hand to his
side. Quickly getting up, he rubbed the blood on his pant leg. “This was recent.
Very recent. We could catch him, you know,” he told her, turning his back on
her. Sarah scrambled after him, grabbing his shoulder. “W-where are y-you
going?” she demanded, tearing again. “Y-you c-can’t just l-leave me here!”
The man sighed. “It might be
dangerous,” he said, scratching the bridge of his nose. Sarah shook her head
quickly. “Th-that’s my h-husb-bend and- and-“
“And you want to catch the murderer
before he attempts killing anyone else- yeah, I know.”
Sarah looked at him with pleading eyes,
tugging the collar of his jacket. “P-please? H-he might b-be after me.”
The man looked at her, uncertain,
before drawing a large breath. He nodded quickly, continuing with his pace. “W-wait,”
she called out, jogging until she reached him, “C-can you j-just prom- promise
me th-that you’ll c-catch him?”
The man locked gazes with her. “You
listen here. We’re not going to stop until we catch the bastard who did this to
your husband, and I’ll be damned if I don’t. After all, I am the Doctor, and
this is what I do best.”
“P-romise?”
The man took her hand. “I promise.”
- left-foot-fowl
_____________________________________________________
Apologize for the quality. I'm in no mood for writing, as you can see, and it's certainly showing. Blegh I hate it when I'm like this.
No comments:
Post a Comment