The Valentine’s Day Massacre I

Fiction

February 14th…

You just stand there, rooted to the spot, completely dazed. Your mind is doing a 220, in a million places at the same time.

The “Cling!” sound of metal hitting the floor brings your aloof mind back to the present.

The details of the events from the last 5 hours are sketchy. There had been an argument … that’s all you can remember

You look down at the 7″ cooking knife, laying on the ground beside your feet, stained red with bl–

No it can’t be blood! Your brain struggles to process the live pictures your eyes are feeding it.

Smeared on your shirt and palms, is the same red liquid –thick and oozing.

Your eyes nearly pop from their socket in sheer horror.

The distant sirens grow louder. You dart to the window; the dazzling blue and red lights edge closer. Your brain may think its the boss, feeling like a king in its palace –your rock hard cranium– but its your youth body that’s going to suffer the full brunt of a prison sentence.

Adrenaline and impulse kick in, your legs make a break for it, even though your brain screams at your body to stay put.

A dark alley, a change of clothes, 4 fences and a train ride later; you’re holed up in a cheap motel room, in a different city, with little to no cash, trying to replay the events from earlier.

“What the hell just happened?” you ask yourself, running your hands through your hair. A shower always helps you think, you decide you’re going to do just that but just as you’re about to strip and step into the shower, you hear a knock on the door.

You freeze!

“Would you like to buy some food?” a female voice calls from the other side of the door. As though on cue, your stomach growls. You can swear your intestines are nibbling away on the lines of your stomach.

You find spare change in your purse and shout for her to enter. You’re pretty sure the food is going to kill you but its a chance you are willing to take. You’re too hungry to think straight at the moment.

A chubby, skimpy clad woman wheels in a cart with food items and a couple of things to drink.

Something tells you she has more salient products on sale, things other than the food she’d just wheeled in, pronounced by the way she sways her flabby body from side to side motioning to her sagging breasts and stressing the ‘vegetables’ in each food item she describes.

Weed, Sex and Alcohol … Typical.

In modern times, turning down either of the unholy trinity in a cheap motel room was suspicious, but turning down all three was enough reason for them to call the cops.

The look on your face says you aren’t interested in anything other than the food. She notices and instinctively starts to reach for her phone. You counter by turning on the 14″ inch television in the shabby room to portray some state of normalcy and of course, sanity.

“I’d like a…” You start, but the woman stops swaying. She looks like she has just seen casper, only an unfriendly version. You trace her line of sight to the television and how about that?– you’re on the news.

The hotel room you’d been in; confetti and candles scattered around for a romantic touch, the police cordoning strays, and two bodies in the middle of the room– white cloth draped over them.

“The Valentine Day Massacre”.. Is the gruesome headline superimposed on the more horrific pictures on the screen.

At the top corner of the screen is a passport of you which makes you look like the lead star in the new series –the return of shrek.

You turn back to the chubby woman but you can’t tell which horrifies her most: the fact that the news says you massacred 15 people or the fact that you look like that in a passport.

There’s a brief stare down, then almost simultaneously, both your gazes lock on a cooking knife on the cart.

Time stands still…

If she gets out, you’re screwed. There’s only one option; one you’re not sure you’re willing to take … Yet …

…find out what happens next in the mini series

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