by C. J. Anaya
I step into the family room and glance toward the adjoining kitchen further back, proudly displaying my assortment of junk food and expecting my family to be seated at the kitchen table.
But they’ve relocated to the large sofa shoved against the left side of the room. The blinds are drawn with only slivers of light filtering through the cracks, appearing hesitant to shed light on the scene before me, making it difficult to come to terms with what I see. They’re lined up in a neat little row with backs flat against the sofa, heads facing straight ahead and eyes open, unblinking, staring unseeing at the other side of the room. My eyes travel to where I think their attention is fixated, but the TV screen is silent and empty, devoid of life or color.
My unease unfurls within me as I take one step, then two, toward the eerie stillness of my loved ones.
Then I see the blood on their foreheads. So much blood colors the wall behind them, filtering out and creating haphazard patterns like a toddler might with a collection of finger paints.
Another step, and then another, and soon I stand directly before them, willing their eyes to come into focus, to lock upon the figure standing before them, waiting for a sign, any sign, that life still beats within the breasts of my sweet children and loving husband, but the disconcerting tableau remains the same. I blink once, then twice, and reach down, deciding all they need is some light contact, a simple touch from someone who loves them, a little warmth to ignite some spark of life within their corporeal forms.
John’s hand is still slightly warm to the touch. I thought it would be cold. He looks cold. Of course, only thirty minutes have passed since I went to the store. It takes a little time for a body to become cold after the life has left it. I know this all too well.
But maybe, with his hand still warm, there’s a chance he might come back to me. Maybe they will all come back to me. I reach for Amy’s hand, and then grab Tim’s strong fingers. My children don’t seem to be responding, but they should be. I’m their mother, after all. They’re supposed to do what I say and realize I know what’s best for them.
“It’s time to wake up.”
My voice sounds dull and leaden in the quiet stillness of the living room, but the chill in the air is still present. I wonder what else took up residence here in the past thirty minutes.
I hear a slight creak in the kitchen and turn my head to the right. A tall man in a dark suit with black sunglasses sits in one of the table’s chairs facing me. My reaction is not what most would expect simply because I have none. The horrific reality of my situation forces me to experience my surroundings with dull and faded senses. The colors aren’t quite right and my focus becomes blurry before I am able to right myself and take a step back from my family. I must deal with this stranger before I can convince my family to join me for another game of Yahtzee.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he says, referring to my earlier statement. “I assure you, Mrs. Krane, your family is quite dead.”
Dead.
The word doesn’t make sense. I’m not entirely convinced he is speaking English, but everything else he has uttered has managed to translate as it hits my ear.
“Why?” is the only word I can muster.
He gestures to a seat at the table. I move as if through sludge, willing my limbs to remain still even though my body is now on autopilot and no longer taking any of my directions.
I sit across the table from him and set my groceries on the floor. Then I place my purse on my lap and reach my hand into the bag. I’m sure I have some chap stick in there somewhere. My lips feel much too dry to carry on a proper conversation with anyone. My hand wraps around cold steel and I remember my concealed weapon hiding within the folds of my purse.
“I’m embarrassed to admit that we’ve screwed up, Mrs. Krane.”
“We?”
“My colleagues and I. I received a call just a few minutes ago. Apparently, we hit the wrong family.”
“Wrong family?”
I’m annoyed by inability to utter anything other than a repetitious onslaught of words morphed into defeated questions. Surely something should be bothering me, but I can’t wrap my brain around what that might be.
Brains.
Head wounds.
My family.
Yes. I need to take care of this mess and help my family get cleaned up. Maybe they’ll wake up once the blood is wiped clean.
I feel a little better now that I have a plan, but this gentleman at my dinner table needs to leave. It was rude for him to simply invite himself over. Unless, of course, John invited him over, which means John ought to apologize for ignoring our guest.
The man’s dark hair is peppered with bits of gray. The colors are clearly at war with one another, and I think the gray will most likely win within the next year or so. I ought to give him the name of a good stylist in town.
It’s the polite thing to do.
He takes off his glasses and stares at me quizzically. There’s a question of his own lingering behind the steel blue of his soulless eyes. I inspect the solid blue orbs with a more intense interest only to discover that my first assessment had been correct. Not a hint of light within this man. Cold, dark, and empty is the best and most simple of ways to describe his soul.
“It’s why I decided to stay, something I don’t usually do after taking care of such nasty business.” His thin lips draw into an even thinner line as he studies me again. “You’re not screaming or crying. I’m assuming that’s the shock setting in. A good defense mechanism, Mrs. Krane. Your mind and body are working very hard to protect you right now.”
“Would you like some juice or water?” It’s the only thing I can think to say since I don’t quite follow this conversation.
His lips turn up at the corners, and he reaches over to pat my hand. The one resting on the table. The one that isn’t gripped around the handle of a gun. I recoil at the cold feel of his skin sliding across my knuckles. Like the rough leather of snake skin.
“There was a hit put out on your family. I guess you folks were mistaken for plants. Russian agents placed here to gather intelligence, creating families and uncovering our own agents for your mother country. You work for the CIA, isn’t that right Mrs. Krane?”
I narrow my eyes. It’s difficult to answer his question when so many of my own come to mind only to flit away before I can process them.
“I’m an analyst,” I mumble automatically.
His lips thin as he contemplates my answer. “Well, at least that part of our intel was accurate. Unfortunately, you’re not the family meant to be eliminated. No doubt the couple we’re really after managed to throw suspicion your way once they realized my employers were onto them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve already left the country.”
My thoughts zero in with sharp focus. It’s as if the picture I stare at stubbornly refuses to do anything but blur whenever I give it too much consideration. Now my new reality crystallizes with the lethal shock of a fifty volt charge.
“You accidentally killed the wrong family.”
“Yes. That’s exactly it.”
He is pleased that I’ve finally grasped the severity of my situation. I can tell he wishes to pat my hand again to reward my progress, but I pull it closer to me, allowing it to continue to rest on the table. I have no intention of putting this trained assassin on edge by hiding my hand in my lap. My other hand is working on a back-up plan.
“Why are you still here? What is your intent?”
His appraisal leaves me feeling like I’ve just walked through a shower of thick oil.
“Well, this is a first for me. I’ve never killed the wrong person before. I guess I assumed the polite thing to do would be to offer an apology.”
A slow burning anger ignites within my breast, but the numbness from my residual shock is acting as a bit of a buffer. The appropriate emotions I should be feeling at the moment are there, hovering in the background, waiting for the right moment to either save or destroy me. I can’t say that I’m
too concerned about the outcome at this point.
The man shifts in his seat, clearly waiting for some kind of response from me, but all I can do is tighten my grip on the gun under the table and keep it pointed in his direction. I’m not sure it’s loaded. I should remember that, shouldn’t I? Are there three bullets left? Possibly four? I’m uncertain. I had to make a quick detour before making my way to the grocery store, and the amount of bullets I discharged over forty minutes ago eludes me.
“But I’ve seen your face,” I argue. “Doesn’t that worry you?”
“Well, you’re more than welcome to discuss my appearance with the police, but once I’m gone, I’m gone. They’ll never find me. Now,” he reaches into his jacket and pulls a 9mm from its holster. “I consider myself quite the proper gentleman, Mrs. Krane. Certainly, I hate to see you have to deal with the fallout of this for the rest of your life. Wholly unfair for someone so undeserving. I can give you two options at this point, and by doing so, make this situation for you a little easier to handle.”
“How considerate Mr….”
“You can call me George if you like. My name really doesn’t matter in the long run.”
I look at him long and hard, deciding he couldn’t possibly be a George, but then I shrug my shoulders and continue to pretend that shock has mastered the whole of my mental and physical capabilities, though that assessment isn’t too far from the truth. Those emotions have nearly reached the surface, but I embrace the fog just a little longer. Long enough to see this through.
He places the gun on the table just in front of him and leans back. “I’ve decided to allow you to make a very important decision, you see. Something I’ve never allowed my other marks to consider. It will be difficult to continue on without your family by your side, and since I feel responsible for your loss, I think it only fair to offer you a way out by allowing you to join the rest of your family on their own personal journey to the spirit world…if you actually believe in that sort of thing.”
“You don’t?”
“We live, we die. Sometimes its better to hasten the end rather than prolong the suffering no matter what we end up finding once we do.”
“You’re a sociopath, aren’t you?”
He gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach the steel blue of his eyes.
“You know, I’d like to feel something akin to sympathy for you, but this is about as much as I can offer. You can either allow me to end your life or you can continue on living without your loved ones. If it were me, I wouldn’t care much either way, but then, I’ve never had much to care about when it comes right down to it.”
“That’s sad.”
“That’s science. What is our emotional reaction to loss except a series of chemical reactions to situations that we really have no logical, compelling reason to care about?”
“I think I’d prefer a third option.” The only option, really. Now that my family is dead, there’s really no reason to continue any of this. No point in scrambling to save those who have already been lost.
“A third option?”
His interest is slightly piqued, but he has no idea what’s coming. What would he care if he did? He’s a sociopath.
“Don’t you think you ought to pay for the mistake you made? Surely, there must be consequences for failure in your line of work.”
I quickly whip the gun out from under the table and point it at him.
His eyes narrow slightly, and he glances at it with little surprise. Does he think I have no intention of shooting him?
I do, of course.
The trigger on my gun folds under the pressure of my finger, and the explosive noise penetrates the stillness of the house. George recoils at the impact, his eyes wide at the pain that radiates from the wound I’ve just inflicted. A shot to the heart. No surviving that. I turn the gun on myself and place the tip against my temple. George’s eyes reflect a morbid curiosity as they begin to glass over from pain and blood-loss. He coughs up something red and lifts a bloody hand, possibly gesturing for me to continue…or stop.
But I can’t stop.
“Incidentally,” I say, “you did manage to find the right family, but for all the wrong reasons.” I pray that there’s one more bullet left as I pull the trigger. Just one more ticket home for me.
There is.
About the Author
I began writing short stories for family and friends when I was thirteen years old. My vivid imagination and love of mysteries and romances eventually led me to following my own dreams of becoming a published author. I also do some book review work for Skin Deep Exposure Magazine.
I’m a huge fan of The Mindy Project, Hugh Jackman, and binge eating any and all things chocolate.
Who isn’t?
As a mother of four awesome kids I’m usually playing beauty salon with my daughters—my four-year-old shaved my arm one time while I was helping another daughter with her homework. Yep. That happened—getting my fanny kicked in Mario Kart by my snarky little son, and making out with my deliciously handsome Latin lover, aka, my hubby.
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