A Violent Scene

The front door was unlocked, just as they said it would be. As I entered the dimly lit living room, I knew I didn’t want to be there. The sunlight sneaking past the shades lit the room enough to make the already gory scene look even worse. The house was a mess.

To my right was a woodstove surrounded by the toys of a young boy. The previous night it added a warm glow to the room. Now cold, it’s flat black faces seemed to suck the heat from my very soul. To my left was a bar littered with beer cans and ashtrays. On the bar was a receipt, a list of items that had been removed for evidence. Two projectiles; a 44 caliber lever action rifle; a panel from the living room wall; the list went on. An overturned floor lamp lay on the dirty, matted, dark green carpet next to the counter.

In front of me was a thoroughly worn old recliner. Only hours ago it was part of a life. A comfortable friend that would greet you at the end of a day.

I could picture her sitting there. A frumpy middle aged woman with tightly curled black and gray hair in need of a perm, wearing pastel colored polyester slacks, and a patterned top that almost matched. Under her blouse she hid a small pot belly and a heart of gold.

Now she was dead. The chair, just a torn and twisted recliner stained with blood, had to be disposed of like the life in which it had played a part.

Next to the chair was a table, on it was a paperback book, and an ashtray half full of spent cigarettes. On the floor next to the table was a broken wooden lamp, with a partly crushed yellow cardboard shade. It was spattered with bits of flesh and blood that looked like scrambled eggs and ketchup. It had been on the table next to the chair where she was sitting when the bullet passed through her head.

Looking past the chair I noticed the missing wall panel and could see a scraped dent in the refrigerator where a bullet had ricocheted. I tried to picture what had happened since I left the night before. My mind was spinning in circles. Nothing made sense. The facts didn’t add up.

I had been asked to get rid of the chair and the lamp. I carefully grabbed the chair trying to avoid the blood. I could feel my stomach turn. I wasn’t ready for this. Who could be. The chair felt damp and sticky. I didn’t know if I was touching fresh blood or not. I wanted to run, but if I did, someone too close to this scene would have to do my job. I held my breath as I dragged the chair to the door and threw it out into the yard.

At the doorway I could feel the cool breeze on my face. With renewed strength I jumped from the porch and quickly dragged the chair across the rocky lawn to the gravel drive.

What now? I noticed a chain saw and a can of gas under the porch. I retrieved the gas and doused the chair. I lit my cigarette lighter and approached the blood and gas soaked chair. When the chair ignited I jumped back a few paces, then stopped to watch the fire. The flames and smoke rose towards the sky while the chair was transformed into a pile of ash among a twisted heap that was once the metal frame.

As the flames died down I realized I had forgotten the lamp inside. As much as I wanted to just leave, it had to be dealt with. I walked back to the front of the house and climbed the steps. Standing in the doorway, I hesitated as I spied the lamp on the floor. When I finally gathered the courage, I entered and crossed the room toward the lamp. I grasped it lightly and held it as far away as I could, while I quickly headed for the door.

Once outside I headed for the fire and tossed the lamp on top. I waited for it to catch, and then watched as it burned. After the fire died out I walked slowly to my car, opened the door, got in, and started the engine. I was relieved that my work was done, yet at the same time saddened that she was gone.

As I drove away, I noticed some of that cold sticky death was still with me. I carry it wherever I go.