Day 3: J - Dinner for Two
An overwhelming smell of burning flooded out through the open windows, but from the outside, the house looked fine. There were no signs of flames licking the sides of the wooden frame, or sound of fire eating the floorboards. There was no heat pulsing out through the windows against his face, but he could hear the fire alarm blaring from within.
A quick radio message told him that his crew was clear to enter the premises, so long as they were on their guard. It didn’t come in clear if the house was empty or if someone was trapped inside.
Swiftly, they made their way in, trying to ignore the assault the alarm and smoke raged on their senses.
It smelled like thanksgiving gone wrong. Overcooked and left to dry out before being used as a candle to fragrance the whole place.
He motioned for his crew to split. Two to the right, to what looked like the back of the house, toward the hallways leading to the bedrooms. Two to follow him, through the living room toward what smelled like the kitchen and possibly dining area.
In the living room, the red throw pillows sat neatly on the chocolate-coloured couch, a knit blanket lay across the right arm for those nights the draft snuck in through the door cracks. The television was set to the Macy’s parade in downtown Manhattan. A blimp of the Pillsbury doughboy floated along the street giddily grinning at the families below as they stood waving up at the cameras in the sky. A small wrapped present sat on the coffee table, still wrapped, covered in soft baby-yellow paper and tied with a neat green bow. Beside it, two glasses of wine, tipped over and broken from the stems. Red and white wine dripping slowly over the sides of the table, pooling on the floor. Two name tags lay beside the shattered glass. Tony and Delphine.
An uneasy feeling wormed its way into the pit of his stomach.
“Hello?” he bellowed, hoping to hear a response. There was nothing, just the constant ring of the fire alarm.
“Jesus, someone turn that thing off,” he cried over the noise.
He continued his way through the house, following the path from the living room to what looked like the eating area.
A low whistle sounded from one of his guys behind him. The spread was impressive. The long wooden table was set for two, covered in a feast fit for at least seven. Pies of what seemed like every flavour aligned on the window sill along the back wall, all untouched, waiting for someone to come along and slice a piece off. Bowls of potatoes in every style and platters of roasted vegetables encircling an empty centre, where he imagined the turkey should have been.
Something was very wrong. What they walked into made no sense.
And someone was in the house, he could sense it. The smell grew more intense as he walked past the table, following the offensive sent through to what he guessed was the kitchen.
This time, a stagger of groans and swear words sounded off from his men. His eyes instantly traveled to the deep red puddle on the floor, a trail of it leading from in front of the oven, opened with a charred turkey sitting on the middle rack, to right around a pair of legs. A lifeless body. Tony. Sprawled out on his back, blood staining right where his left kidney would be, seeping through the light blue collared shirt. And beside him, a woman, Delphine, crouched on the linoleum floor. A butcher knife in her hand, blood along her floral print dress, but she wasn’t there. Not really. She had this far-off look in her eyes like she wasn’t kneeling in a pool of someone else’s blood.
“Call back up,” he whispered over his shoulder. She was still armed, and unstable. A murderer. She was a mine waiting for someone to set her off.
The static of the radio broke her out of the trance. She looked up into his eyes, body violently shaking. The tracks of fresh tears cutting through the smudges of blood on her cheekbones.
“She’s going into shock,” one of his men stated.
“Stand back!” he ordered.
She was on the move, struggling to get up, almost slipping in the puddle that had slowly traveled to pool around her feet. The knife was still armed in her right hand by her side.
“Ma’am, we are the police. Please, drop the knife, or we will be forced to retaliate!” he shouted, trying to get through to her. He didn’t want it to end worse than it already had.
She looked directly into his eyes. He had never seen something so dark, so soulless and empty. It startled him, scared him in a way that he knew he was trained to react against.
“Ma’am, we said stand down!”
A quick radio message told him that his crew was clear to enter the premises, so long as they were on their guard. It didn’t come in clear if the house was empty or if someone was trapped inside.
Swiftly, they made their way in, trying to ignore the assault the alarm and smoke raged on their senses.
It smelled like thanksgiving gone wrong. Overcooked and left to dry out before being used as a candle to fragrance the whole place.
He motioned for his crew to split. Two to the right, to what looked like the back of the house, toward the hallways leading to the bedrooms. Two to follow him, through the living room toward what smelled like the kitchen and possibly dining area.
In the living room, the red throw pillows sat neatly on the chocolate-coloured couch, a knit blanket lay across the right arm for those nights the draft snuck in through the door cracks. The television was set to the Macy’s parade in downtown Manhattan. A blimp of the Pillsbury doughboy floated along the street giddily grinning at the families below as they stood waving up at the cameras in the sky. A small wrapped present sat on the coffee table, still wrapped, covered in soft baby-yellow paper and tied with a neat green bow. Beside it, two glasses of wine, tipped over and broken from the stems. Red and white wine dripping slowly over the sides of the table, pooling on the floor. Two name tags lay beside the shattered glass. Tony and Delphine.
An uneasy feeling wormed its way into the pit of his stomach.
“Hello?” he bellowed, hoping to hear a response. There was nothing, just the constant ring of the fire alarm.
“Jesus, someone turn that thing off,” he cried over the noise.
He continued his way through the house, following the path from the living room to what looked like the eating area.
A low whistle sounded from one of his guys behind him. The spread was impressive. The long wooden table was set for two, covered in a feast fit for at least seven. Pies of what seemed like every flavour aligned on the window sill along the back wall, all untouched, waiting for someone to come along and slice a piece off. Bowls of potatoes in every style and platters of roasted vegetables encircling an empty centre, where he imagined the turkey should have been.
Something was very wrong. What they walked into made no sense.
And someone was in the house, he could sense it. The smell grew more intense as he walked past the table, following the offensive sent through to what he guessed was the kitchen.
This time, a stagger of groans and swear words sounded off from his men. His eyes instantly traveled to the deep red puddle on the floor, a trail of it leading from in front of the oven, opened with a charred turkey sitting on the middle rack, to right around a pair of legs. A lifeless body. Tony. Sprawled out on his back, blood staining right where his left kidney would be, seeping through the light blue collared shirt. And beside him, a woman, Delphine, crouched on the linoleum floor. A butcher knife in her hand, blood along her floral print dress, but she wasn’t there. Not really. She had this far-off look in her eyes like she wasn’t kneeling in a pool of someone else’s blood.
“Call back up,” he whispered over his shoulder. She was still armed, and unstable. A murderer. She was a mine waiting for someone to set her off.
The static of the radio broke her out of the trance. She looked up into his eyes, body violently shaking. The tracks of fresh tears cutting through the smudges of blood on her cheekbones.
“She’s going into shock,” one of his men stated.
“Stand back!” he ordered.
She was on the move, struggling to get up, almost slipping in the puddle that had slowly traveled to pool around her feet. The knife was still armed in her right hand by her side.
“Ma’am, we are the police. Please, drop the knife, or we will be forced to retaliate!” he shouted, trying to get through to her. He didn’t want it to end worse than it already had.
She looked directly into his eyes. He had never seen something so dark, so soulless and empty. It startled him, scared him in a way that he knew he was trained to react against.
“Ma’am, we said stand down!”
She had taken a step closer, slow, like she was floating toward him. But all in one motion she jerked to the left, swiftly bringing the knife to connect with his stomach until a shot rang through the house. Her body stood motionless. Time slowed down to a millisecond state as he watched a moment of realization play across her face. The last thing he saw was relief, her final sigh holding the weight of the world expelled with the light of life, before her body crumpled over, dropping to the floor.
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Prompt: Write about a feast. Someone has to cry.
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