The house is in a bad way. Clothes are strewn from the banisters, binbags collecting in piles on the floors. The place is dirty. The people who live here don't tidy up much. The kitchen counters are barely visible under the mountains of grimy plates. Mould has accumulated on them, thick and white. I can't remember why I'm here. I came to see the people, but I can't see them. There are flies, lots of flies. And dead moths on the lampshades. It's dark. The windows are locked behind heavy shutters. I can't open them. I don't try.
There are more flies here. I don't like them. Their buzzing and their quick, sharp movements make me stop. I am silent because there is nothing to say. I am slow because I am looking. I am tired. I must find them soon. Then I must find the door. The house is big. I forget where I came in from.
There is a droning noise. It sounds familiar. It is the flies. I can't see for the crowds of them. Their tiny wings beat to make the never-ending buzzing noise. They are collected around a door. I don't want to go in but I do because it wouldn't be a thorough search if I didn't. The people might be in there. I open the door. The flies don't stop buzzing or moving. They crawl along my arms and in my hair. I can feel their movements on my bare skin, which turns to gooseflesh. There is something sticky on the carpet, but I can't see because it is obscured by flies. I can't see much of the room either. There is a cloud of black covering my vision, moving and swirling. I don't like the flies.
The people are very quiet. I talk to them but they don't reply. That's rude. I can't see their faces because of the flies. The carpet is stickier in here. The people were clumsy. They are very messy, to let their house become like this. How could I have lived here for as long as I did without talking to them? I spoke to them once when I arrived but they never responded. They are ignorant.
I look a little closer at the nearest one. From what I can see of her, she is middle aged. I can see snatches of red lipstick from between the flies. She is in an armchair, her hand trailing on the floor. I look at the hand. It is cold. There is a gold ring on it. There is another hand beside it. This one is smaller. I look at the arms attached. It belongs to a little girl. Her expression is vacant. She is wearing a pink dress. I don't like it. She is sleeping quietly on the floor. I look back at the first woman again. There is something else about her, something important. I'm not sure what it is. My eyes rake up and down her body. Then I remember. The knife which I plunged into her stomach is still there. There are maggots and flies on the blade. These people aren't very healthy.
The man in the other armchair looks sad. I can see his face from the back of the chair. His head swung back when I slit his throat. His throat is covered in black swarming flies. His clothes are dirty, stained red and black. I won't say how the little girl died. She was the last to go. I think she struggled. I can't remember. I don't think she can either. Her silky blonde hair lies on her shoulders. It has made a good nest for the flies. She looks the neatest out of the family, I think. From the front, you can't see the accumulation of mould and flies. I was very careful. I stabbed her in the back then waited until she hit the floor. She was very well-behaved, I remember. She didn't scream while her parents were murdered. I killed the woman first. I smile at the memory. Then the father. He died almost instantly. Almost. The girl and her mother died holding hands, I believe. I kicked the hands away from each other afterwards. It was a kindness. Imagine if they were Jewish. Some people can't touch dead bodies. Well, apart from their own, of course.
They were never very tidy. I always nagged them to do a bit of dusting. I was their guest, after all. I came in and spoke to them when I first arrived. They never answered. I left my plates on the kitchen counters to see if they would clean them up, but they didn't. It was almost as if they didn't know I was here. As if they were dead to my presence. I smile. They were.
