The Little Blue House

A light, warm breeze had started up. It ruffled the tops of the thin trees, rustling quietly. A hush had fallen over the village. The gas lamps still burned pinpricks of light over patches of ground, but as I watched, a sleepy sun rose, pink and yellow like the roses at my feet. Soon, they'd brown, and the sun would burn white in the cloudless blue sky.

It was going to be a beautiful day.

The land lay flat for miles around, but parts were shrouded in trees, and behind the little blue house the ground sloped to a small patch of woodland. I watched that now. A length of rope hung from a tree. I was glad it was empty now - the last body had been removed two months ago. Life had improved since.

The little blue house was silent. The outside was painted a light, sky blue and the faded curtains in the windows were also a similar colour. Well, why else would it be called the blue house?

I dropped from my solitary perch on the garden gate to the rough, yellow patch of grass that had, until recently, been used as a paddock for horses. Two had been sold, and the third boiled for food. That had been a good week.

It was still very early morning, but it was almost fully light now, it being summer and all. I bent, and picked up a seasheel. The Robinsons' boy must have been playing with it.

I made my way toward the trees, and took the rope in both hands. The wooden block they made you stand on was gone, as were the huge boot prints in the mud. The mud was just dust now.

A scream cut through the still, warm air. A flurry of movement at the windows of each and every inhabited house of the village.

I walked back up to the little blue house slowly, taking care to open the gate I'd previously climbed over. I shut my eyes for a second, before entering the bustling living room.

It was incredibly full of life for the scene that lay before me. Jack Giles - the tall, sandy-haired farmer - lay, as if sleeping, across the Robinsons' floral carpet. The restful illusion was broken by his lack of breathing, his strong shoulders at last unmoving.

A bullet in his temple.

Blood trickling down the side of his face.

No breath, no beating heart, no heat anymore.

I did a good job.