So, I was originally going to post this and enter MGB_'s and Snowy's contest, but I did not find the time to do so.


Without further delays, here's my take at a short, simple, horror story that is a bit more mysterious than horrifying.

Enjoy!

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I was scared. Literally scared.

I knew this because I could feel the pulsating, patterned palpitations of my heart in my fingertips. That usually only happened when I had slept on my hands, or sat on them, and the blood rushed back, or my heart was beating so hard I could barely think straight. 

I could see my heartbeat. Well, feel it in my eyes, too. It was weird. But, not as weird as the dead body laying at my feet.

Or the blood pooling around of my limited edition, pink, gold, and white Nike running shoes. I really liked these shoes, too.

It also wasn't as weird as the knife I had in my hand. It was your standard, run-of-the-mill kitchen knife, used for cutting up vegetables or meat for cooking.

However odd this was, the fact was still evident; the blade was in my hand. Not to mention, it was drenched with blood; not from an animal, but the body at my feet. At least, maybe it was. It would be weird if it weren't.

I dropped the knife and carefully stepped back, my foot steps leaving outlines of my shoes on the hardwood floor. The grooves were slowly filling with the blood, but there was so much. Why was there so much blood? I looked at my hands, shaking a bit with... excitement? If I had just killed this person, how could I be excited? Was I crazy? Was I?

What if I were? What if this were a dream? What if? I shut off my thoughts, just long enough to get my bearings. I was in a house, in the middle of a living room. Posh hardwood floors, lush leather couches, a glass topped wooden based, seemingly hand crafted, coffee table, and a small lamp lit up the room.

My hands had just a bit of that red blood on it. It almost started to wipe it off on my pants, but then I noticed they were around my ankles, and my shirt was ripped. My fingers danced nervously over my stomach and I gripped the material and pulled. It gave easily, and I used it as the rag it was to clean my hands before moving through the posh house to find a sink and soap.


I almost tripped over a stupid cat. It was lanky, with a bobbed tail, but it was white with a large black spot on it's left side. It's feet were socked with the black fur, and the tips of it's ear's were black as well. I knew that cat. It was my boyfriend's cat. "Damn it, Lucifer.. watch where you run." I spoke, startling myself.

My voice had me jumping slightly, bouncing and hugging myself. I must have sounded foreign to myself, that or my conscious finally kicked back in. It did. I kept questioning myself. Why was there a dead body in my living room? That's right. This was my house. But, why were my pants around my ankles? And, even more curious, why did I have the knife?

Lucifer, the cat, rubbed himself against my legs and then slinked off elsewhere. I finally made my way across the linoleum floor and found a sink. I used the back of my hand to push the hot water knob to full blast. I rinsed my hands first in the scalding water, and then filled my palm with soap and scrubbed. Cleaned my fingernails and felt water hit my face.

But, it wasn't hot. It was just mildly warm. I licked the corner of my mouth, where the water trickled down my cheek, and tasted salt. Odd. I glanced up and caught my faint reflection in the blackened window over the sink. I was crying. What the hell? I blinked away the tears and cleaned the soap and grunge off of my hands and then pulled back up my pants.

I stepped back from my reflection and looked at myself. Pale skin. Pale hair. Pale eyes. Blue eyes, but still painstakingly pale. I had an odd mole near my belly button, and I had killed a man. 


I turned from myself and moved back to the living room, a hand scratching behind my head, feeling a bit of wetness. I moved my fingers back in front of me and found blood. Odd. I felt again. Still bloody. This time, though, my fingers caused me pain. "Ow.."

Speaking this time, I wasn't as scared of my somber tone. I crouched, my knees tucked into my nearly flat bosom while I reached across the pool of blood to turn the body over. It was face down. From the clothes, the short hair, and the wide shoulders I realized it was a man. My boyfriend? No. He was too short, and his hair was oddly red. It was dyed, I could see his dark brown roots growing back in.

I turned him over and stepped back with a gasp ripping passed my lips. This man, was someone's friend, brother, or lover. He was dead, and bleeding out all over my living room. I opened my mouth, my voice a weak squeak before I muttered, so softly, that I doubted I could even hear myself,

"Who.. who are you?"

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If you made it this far, I thank you for reading, and I also thank you for taking the time out of your day to enjoy a short, simple story. :]

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