Jellybones

October 30th, 2016

I woke up late for work. Sam had taken the alarm clock with him downstairs when he had gone to sleep on the couch. Normally, he made sure I was up for work every morning since he usually left earlier than I did. I could hear the television blaring in the living room, sounded like NCIS:LA. Why hadn't Sam turned it off, better yet, why hadn't he woken me up for work?

I went downstairs; I couldn't smell the familiar scent of coffee filling up the landing like I could ever morning. Something wasn't right.

I walked through the foyer on my way to the living room and noticed the front door was open. I could see my neighbor in her front yard adding some new fall decorations, scarecrows, and mums. She saw me and waved. I waved back at her before noticing the blood on my nightgown. I shut the door.

As I entered the living room, I could smell the sweet aroma of rotting fruit. I started to panic at the smell. I had learned over the past few days that the now familiar scent was the same fragrance blood gave off the first few hours after death.

I couldn't move. I stood in the foyer looking into our living room. "Sam?" I called out.

Nothing... He did not answer me.

I couldn't force myself to go into the room and look on the sofa. I went into the bathroom instead. I turned on the light and shut the door behind me. I rested my back against it for a moment, trying to shut the world and what could be waiting for me on the couch out.

I couldn't breathe; I began gasping for air as I went into a full panic attack.

I managed to pull myself together somehow. I needed to call my boss and tell him I was going to be late. I was sure he was going to fire me.

As I turned to leave the bathroom, I caught my reflection in the mirror. That can't be me!

I leaned against the sink staring into the mirror. Blood was splattered on my face, and some of it had smeared as I had slept. I had blood in my hair and down my neck. I backed away from the sink, looking down at myself; I had blood all over my arms.

I wanted to scream, but I couldn't stop looking at myself in the mirror, memorized by my countenance. The blood was beginning to dry, coagulating in crimson patterns on my face. It reminded me of my lipstick, only smeared, looking sickly glamorous to me. Sam always liked my lipstick. I always felt empowered when I wore it and people took notice of me.

Sam was dead. His intestines and other organs were strewn about like a child's toys from their chest. He looked peaceful despite the gruesome scene except for the fact his eyes were open, staring blankly at the TV.

My poor Sam... what had I done? Did I actually do it? I couldn't have done this to him; it's just not in me! I loved him... Was I still dreaming?

I should have called the cops. Instead, I went upstairs and changed my clothes. I googled the whereabouts of the old gristmill and printed out the directions. Whoever had called me last night had murdered Sam. I was going to find them.

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