The lavender tea brewed two days before had begun to brown. A fine coat of grey dust, sticky to the touch, coated the broken microwave on the top shelf.
Carefully stepping forward, the man turned the silver door knob with a leather gloved hand. He made slow deliberate movements with the soles of his shoes. No imprints on the carpet. No streaks on the tiles.
There, lying on the floor, were the man and woman who had been chasing him. Unidentifiable wounds gleamed in the dark with blood marring their bodies; it could have been a gunshot wound on one and a knife cut on the other.
He should have felt relief.
The foremost threat of his last two years of life was gone. However, the feeling of cold air in the house which prickled his scalp told him something worse had replaced it.
Still, he crept out of the room just as he had entered, then closed the door with a click, then he ran.
mortiflying 