Welcome Home
It is said that one can almost sense danger. Sort of a sixth sense, born most likely out of the early days of humankind where mere seconds would mean the difference between life and death. But now that sense isn’t quite so sharp, not nearly as “acute,” so when death approaches us with its design… that sense often comes too late.
It did for me. Now I wander this socially barren planet, striving to unlock the mysteries behind my death. My last memories consisted of a demise so horrifyingly, brutally violent that even in death I can almost shudder at the very thought of it.
Would you like to hear this gruesome tale? No? I’ll tell you anyway.
I was walking home one day from work. My job wasn’t very interesting, I spoke to people, I kicked computers in a futile attempt to fix them, I breathed, ate and drank just like any other man. I had parked my car in the driveway and walked into the house. Strange… The lights didn’t work. I remember cursing under my breath as I stubbed my toe on an umbrella stand trying to find the flashlight behind it. I turned it on and I recall that I immediately wished that I hadn’t. Blood. Everywhere. I closed my eyes, thinking it was some wild vision, that perhaps I was seeing things. I opened them and the blood hadn’t left. A hand print was painted on my wall and words were written in gruesomely red ink. I don’t need to tell you what the ink was made of. “Welcome home,” it said; needless to say I did not feel welcome at all and turned, ashen and pale to escape the house. But I couldn’t. A sneering man with bloodshot eyes in his mid-forties stood in the way. It was about this time that sixth sense I mentioned earlier started to kick in which, as I also mentioned, was far too late.
In his hand was a bloody knife. He started walking toward me, forcing me to go backwards. I peered into the living-room. The lights were working in there. What I saw caused a scream to escape my lips. My wife lay in the den. She was still alive, barely. She looked up at me and lifted a bloody hand, bidding me to make good my escape. I couldn’t. My legs would not move. With a mad laugh, the man lifted the knife. My last thoughts were that I recognized the knife as part of a kitchen set my brother bought me on my birthday.