I left for work just like any other day. Just like any other day. But it was not just any other day. I had the worst feeling as I sat at my desk, my own name staring back at me. Chad Trotter. It seemed to whisper, begging me to listen. Walking through the halls of Arrowhead Corp.’s large office building, I ran into four people. The halls were almost empty. I decided to take the rest of the day off. I almost ran two red lights on the way home, my brain fogged by this helpless feeling.
Arriving at home I sit in my car for a minute, then slowly walk to the front door. I open the door into the kitchen. I don’t get a second to breathe. There sitting on my kitchen table, is one bloody kitchen knife. My husband Andrew Welton laid dead on the floor.
I don’t hear the screams destroying my throat as they pass through my lips. I don’t feel the crack as my knees slam against the tile. I only see the blood. I only see my dead husband laying on the floor in front of me. We’d been fighting this morning. Now all I could think was how stupid it’d been.
I rack my brain trying to remember if I’d told him I loved him before I’d left the house. Did I? Did I remember to tell my husband I loved him and give him a kiss before I left for work? No. And now he’ll never hear me say it again. I scream it repeatedly. But he will never hear what should have been the last thing I said before I’d left for work.
