Cold Blood

❥Chapter Thirty-nine❥

Written by ChemicalWonderland

Dad POV

Memory

I wait for my wife in the bedroom, a knife held behind my back discreetly. From anyone else's vantage point, it would appear as if I'm preparing to unveil a bouquet of flowers or a box of chocolates for my beloved, but the reality is much more delightful. She has no idea what's about to happen to her, which makes it even better. As far as she's aware, I'm busy at work a thirty minutes drive away.

I can hear her soft, gentle footsteps padding up the staircase, the wood creaking loudly with each step. I can almost smell her blood and all the emotions that surround her: calm, peace, content.

Eventually, the stairs stop creaking, and the knob to the bedroom door turns slightly as she enters. A basket of clothes are beside her hip as she hums along to a song we used to listen to on long drives to the beach before we had Everett. The memory makes me disgust her even more.

My wife looks up in surprise, a momentary flash of confusion crossing her face. "What are you doing home?" she asks, looking around the room, probably wondering where I'd entered the house. "I didn't hear the front door open."

A grin spreads across my face, one that's sadistic but she interprets as loving. I step closer, shortening the distance between us. The hand holding the knife is incredibly tense. "Well," I begin in my perfect husband voice,"I couldn't stop thinking about you at work, and with our anniversary approaching soon. . ."

A smile lights up her eyes, a genuine smile, as she drops the basket on the floor and throws her arms around my neck in an embrace. I casually slide my hands behind her back, keeping the knife out of her line of sight. Sliding the knife-free hand to her face and down her neck, I lean my head forward as if I'm about to kiss her. My heart pounds so loud in my ears that it's difficult to concentrate. My grip is sweaty all of the sudden, and I have the fleeting fear that I'm becoming a shabby killer.

Before I can make a move with the knife, she tilts her head up and steps away from me. Only by a few seconds am I able to conceal the knife once more. My thoughts scream at me in my head, at my failure. Frustration builds in my throat. The plan was to stab her, and then, still alive, I would hang her from the ceiling fan above me. Maybe I'll just have to skip the first step.

"It was really sweet of you to come home to see me, but shouldn't you go back-" she starts, but I interrupt.

Grabbing the rope I hid in my bedside table drawer, I lunge at her with it and wrap it tightly around her neck. Her gasp of air is cut off abruptly, her eyes wide with panic and fear. She grabs at my shirt and chest with her claw-like fingernails, kicking her feet at my legs. It hurts, causing me to pull the rope even tighter.

"You stupid bitch!" I spit, glaring at her angrily.

She eventually seems to loose energy, only able to stay conscious for as long as her lack of oxygen will allow. I can still feel her faint pulse below her jawline, meaning she's alive, but just barely. Both of which are perfect for the rest of my plan.

Dragging her petite, limp body downstairs in pursuit of the basement, I begin to fantasize about the events which will soon take place.

Me, holding a gleaming knife, standing over her weak crumpled form as she begs for mercy.