#NaNoWriMo2016 – 2 – Don’s Lonely Demise

Don flinched every time there was a bang on the door. It wouldn’t last too long; he and his late wife lived in a single-wide trailer and the doors were little more than corrugated cardboard with wood laminate on them. He could see it bending under each blow, the screws and hinges loosening every time.

He glanced into the mirror propped up on the wall nearby. He looked like hell: his hair was a mess, his dark brown mustache was wet with blood, although he couldn’t remember hurting his nose. His dark blue eyes were bloodshot and his broad, muscular shoulders were in agony from where Mira’s fingers had dug in deep. His white Budweiser shirt was stained with blood all over the back, and he’d pulled his pant leg up to look at his injured knee.

His knee throbbed, and judging from the way it was swollen and black, his kneecap was probably broken. There was a loud crack as the door handle started to break loose. It would be over soon.

Don and Mira were arguing again. Once again Don had come home late from the bar, spending part of their meager income on beer and wings again, hanging out with his chauvinist buddies from work. Don was indignant, as always. “I work at a factory. What do you do? Work at fucking Burger King. You had a better job, but you QUIT.”

Mira stepped back. He went there. “I worked at Hobby Lobby, you asshole.”

Don shrugged and held his hands out sarcastically. “So? It paid better. God, you’re not going to start that feminist shit again are you?” Mira scoffed and threw her hands up. “You’re about as supportive as a wet tissue bra, you know that, Donald?”

“Don’t fucking call me Donald.”

“I’m divorcing you, Donald. I’m tired of this shit.” Mira spat. “We’ve been at this kind of shit for too long. You’ll never change, that’s fine, but I’m not going to be here to deal with it.”

“I said don’t fucking call me Donald!”

Mira let out a loud, exasperated sigh. “You’re not even listening to me. Figures.”

“We’re not getting a divorce.” Don stated flatly.

Mira cocked an eyebrow. “Really? Did you forget in this state only one person needs to want it? I’ll move out tomorrow. We’re done.” Don looked Mira over. Thin build, bleach blonde hair with the dark roots growing in, a striped tank top and old jeans. “No one is going to want you.” Don teased.

Mira laughed in his face. “I’d rather die alone than spend another day with a loser like you.” She started for the front door. Don grabbed her arm. “You’re not going ANYWHERE.” Mira turned and looked him in the eye, her face filled with unrestrained hate and surprise. “Let go of me, now!” She shouted.

Don let go, but threw her arm at the same time, causing Mira to fall. She got up and shoved Don as hard as he could. He started to laugh but tripped over the coffee table and stumbled. She’d barely moved him, Don was easily twice her weight and six feet tall, he’d simply tripped over it on his own. That didn’t change his reaction at all, she chuckled at him and he was suddenly enraged. He bounced up off the floor. He slicked back his dark brown hair with his right hand and glared at her. She was surprised by this; for all their disagreements and arguments, she’d never seen him this pissed before.

Her hands went up defensively in front of her. “Don’t you dare touch me.” She threatened. Don stalked forward. Mira turned toward the door, but Don was after her. She couldn’t get the deadbolt turned and he almost had her. She ducked and ran around him, just barely missing being punched in the head. She ran for the kitchen, hoping to get out the back door before he caught her.

“Bitch!” he screamed and ran after her. She was halfway across the linoleum floor of the small kitchen before he had a handful of her hair and yanked back. She screamed wordlessly in panic. He tried dragging her, but she fought too hard, so he swung her toward the stove. He punched Mira in the back several times.

He held her down on the stove and hit her again. Mira wasn’t thinking anymore, just reacting. She grabbed the dirty cast iron skillet on the back burner and swung it back. Don moved out-of-the-way when he noticed it but was still clipped on the elbow. Fueled by adrenaline, Mira swung it easily. Twice at his head, he fell back, then she held it up over her shoulder, then swung it backhanded edgewise at his leg. The was a dull clang as it connected fully with his kneecap.

Don wailed in pain and dropped to the floor, clutching his knee. “I’ll fucking kill you!” he shrieked as he pulled himself up with the table. Not thinking, Mira dropped the skillet and ran to the back door. Don threw himself over the table and tackled her, then screamed again as he hit his knee on the floor. Mira was fighting viciously to get out from under him. In blind rage he punched her several times in the face.

She reached down and grabbed his crotch and squeezed for all she was worth. He fell on her, but she was able to squirm out from under him. She swooned. He’d knocked her brain around and she was dizzy and couldn’t get her bearings. She could hear him throwing up on the floor from the pain she’d inflicted. She stumbled, not sure where she was. Her head was swimming and blood and sweat were pouring into her eyes.

She grew panicked once again as she heard Don get up. There was a metallic scrape from the direction of the sink. She wiped her eyes with her shirt and looked around to get her bearings.

Then she felt an incredible pain in her chest. Mira looked down to see the chef’s knife she’d used to carve the chicken dinner earlier halfway buried into her sternum. Don had stabbed with such anger and ferocity, a full four inches of knife had pierced her chest bone and her heart. She gave him a look of surprise, then fell to the floor, dead.

Don breathed heavily. His kneecap was killing him and his balls ached horribly. He looked down at his wife, her dead eyes staring at the ceiling, the front of her shirt stained with blood. “Oh shit…” he whispered. Now was his turn to panic. What was he going to do? He’d never laid a finger on her before, now he’d beaten and killed her. In the back of his mind, he felt incredible guilt and shame. However in the front of his mind, he selfishly tried to justify it to himself. He also needed to figure out what to do. Did he call the cops? Or did he get rid of her and say she left him?

The second one was very plausible, she’d threatened to leave several times. Now how did he get her body out of a single-wide mobile home at the back of a large trailer park?

There was a thump at the front door. “Oh SHIT.” He said again, quietly. It might be the Jordans from next door. The old couple was nosy as hell; he’d seen them staring out their windows at his place before when he and Mira fought. They always found a reason to come over the next day and ask for help around the yard so they could peak in to see if anything had broken.

He started fashioning an excuse in his mind. He couldn’t move her in his current state, his kneecap was distractingly painful. He limped into the living room toward the front door and looked back. Perfect, the arm of the couch blocked her fully from view. He would tell the old bastards that they’d spilled some dish soap on the floor. He’d slipped and Mira had gotten messy helping him up and was getting ready to shower. It sounded plausible enough.

Don took a deep, steadying breath and opened the inner door. “Mr and Mrs Jordan…” he started, but then stopped. Something was odd. They were at the bottom of the concrete stairs leading to the front door, not on the porch as he’d expected. They were facing away, so he opened the screen door and flipped on the front light. The old couple turned. They were standing in fog; thick, soupy mist that obscured them from the waist down.

He started to ask what they needed when they turned to face him. He was mute with shock. Mrs. Jordan’s arm was stripped of meat from the elbow down. Mr Jordan’s mouth surrounded by ragged, ripped lips and blood stained his face from the nose down and slicked the front of his shirt. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what happened. Don was so shocked he stood gape-mouthed trying to process what he was seeing.

The Jordan’s eyes, both usually dark brown, had turned light sky blue and their pupils were pinpoints. Both opened their mouths and started hissing then shambled up the stairs. Don shrieked and fell back, twisting his broken knee. The screen door closed thanks to the pneumatic pull on it, but then bounced. Mrs Jordan’s mutilated arm caught in the opening.

She pulled it back open. Both elderly people shambled in the door. Don scrambled to his feet, trying to sublimate the shattering pain in his leg. He barely noticed some of the fog had drifted in with the Jordans. It slithered across the floor like a living thing, directly for Mira’s body.

Don was on his feet again, just as Mr Jordan fell on him. He punched the old man in the face, connecting hard and knocking him to the ground. Mrs Jordan stumbled over her fallen husband, allowing Don precious seconds to move away. He backed toward the kitchen, watching the old couple getting up off the floor, when he bumped into something. He turned and screamed.

Mira was standing in his way, the knife still protruding from her chest, her eyes the same light blue as the Jordans. She was dead, but she was barring his way. She grabbed his arm. She was much stronger than she should be. Her mouth opened as she tried to bite him, but he pulled away. She panted like a tired dog as her fingers tore into his arm, pulling his flesh away from his bones and causing blood to pour onto the floor.

He shoved her as hard as he could with his other arm, crying in pain. She fell back into the stove. The Jordans were almost on him. He managed to grab the skillet and swung it back in desperation, connecting the edge fully with Mrs Jordan’s neck. There was a sickening crack as her head snapped to the side and she fell down onto the linoleum. He stared in horror as her mouth still bit at him and her undamaged arm twitched slightly trying to reach at him.

He shoved Mr Jordan back and then brought the skillet down one, two, three times onto Mrs Jordan’s head. Her forehead changed shape and blood dribbled out of her ears. She no longer moved. He was breathing heavy and limped back past the table, heading through the kitchen toward the bedroom.

He glanced out the back window. The fog was everywhere, obscuring the ground and swirling around trees and the wood fence that separated their yard from the neighbors’ as if it had a purpose. Dark figures shuffled through the fog, toward his house. His terrified mind managed to process that whatever had happened to the Jordans and Mira had happened to the rest of the park at least.

Mira was on him again, her fingers digging painfully into her back. It suddenly occurred to him that if things had played out differently, if he’d had more control and hadn’t let his injured pride escalate things, they could be holed up together, fighting whatever this was as a pair. Instead she was dead, and trying to kill him. It was completely unreal. Despite the pain, he was almost numb. Fear and adrenaline were pushing him forward.

He swung his elbow back and connected with Mira’s face. The strength of the blow staggered her, but she wasn’t actually fazed at all and came after him as if nothing had happened. He made it just into the bedroom and kicked the door shut in her face. He could hear it connect and in a panic, he clicked the little indoor lock.

He crawled over the bed and hid behind it. Mira pounded on the door, no doubt with help from Mr Jordan. It also sounded like someone was beating the hell out of the front screen door. That wasn’t going to last long either. He had no weapons; Mira had sold his gun six months before and the bedroom had little more than clothes and the bed. The “master bathroom” was equally useless, and he had no desire to move again.

Don flinched every time there was a bang on the door. It wouldn’t last too long; he and his late wife lived in a single-wide trailer and the doors were little more than corrugated cardboard with wood laminate on them. He could see it bending under each blow, the screws and hinges loosening every time.

He glanced into the mirror propped up on the wall nearby. He looked like hell: his hair was a mess, his dark brown mustache was wet with blood, although he couldn’t remember hurting his nose. His dark blue eyes were bloodshot and his broad, muscular shoulders were in agony from where Mira’s fingers had dug in deep. His white Budweiser shirt was stained with blood all over the back, and he’d pulled his pant leg up to look at his injured knee.

His knee throbbed, and judging from the way it was swollen and black, his kneecap was probably broken. There was a loud crack as the door handle started to break loose. It would be over soon.

He laughed without humor. Maybe he should have listened to her. She had been right, he treated her like the couch, just something he came home to, but at least the couch didn’t nag.

The door banged open. Don shrank back. Mira was joined by Mr Jordan, and some people who he vaguely recognized from down the street. He barely noticed the thick ropes of white fog creeping around and under the bed as the blue-eyed monsters that used to be people descended on him.

There wasn’t a living soul in the entire park to hear his screaming as he was torn apart and eaten.

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