His heavy boots sent particles of dust slightly upward with each step. He groaned as he held on to the back of the chair before finally deciding to sit. The paper, neatly fixed in the typewriter had been placed there for him by his wife. What she expected him to do with it, he wasn’t sure.
He stared at the blank page.
He stared at the blank page.
He stared at the blank page.
It wasn’t blank.
His giant calloused hands trembled as he ran a finger across the red dot barely visible to the naked eye. It smudged, leaving an immovable blemish on his canvas.
A creaking sound from behind him sent chills through his body. His chest sunk as he turned to see his beloved hanging from the rafters. Her petite body swaying ever so slightly. Her eyes, red with blood. Pinned to her shirt was a note.
Don’t let my actions dictate your life. Write the ending to your own story. For better or worse, June.
He began to type.
I haven’t a story or a life that you are not part of. Death do us part. Love, Henry.
He placed the butt of his rifle on the floor and rested his chin on the muzzle.
Leesa Writes 