Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 61149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Stopping outside his bedroom, I crack the red painted door a little wider to sneak a peek of him in his crib but am surprised to see nothing but crinkled blankets.
Red crinkled blankets.
What the fuck?
Why are they red?
When did he get red blankets?
Where are the checkered racing pattern ones?
Did he puke on them again?
I give the door another glance during my exit, immediately noticing the shade is now much darker than I remember.
Why’d we pick this one?
Why’d we pick something that looks so much like blood?
Why didn’t we pick something closer to the classic sportscar color?
And why’s the Ferrari horse decal crooked?
Wait.
It’s not crooked.
It’s fucking broken.
Headless.
Headless?!
What. The. Fuck!
Why’s it headless?
When did it get that way?
Why would The Kid not fix this shit the second he saw it?
Does he want our little guy to have haunting nightmares for years to come?!
Is it not bad enough that our wife still does?
Unhappy grunts reverberate throughout the short hall during my stomp to the end where our bedroom is located.
For now, it’s not so bad having his nursey close aka within an immediate retrieval distance.
When he gets a little older?
That shit’ll change.
We’ve already got the plan worked up.
He’ll need his space, and so will we for the same yet very different reasons.
I’m thinkin’ maybe we turn his current spot into a hobby room.
Maybe start putting together model cars.
Me, him, and Kid.
Have something that we can always do together.
No matter how old any of us get.
Seeing our door cracked just like our son’s was instantly has me pausing.
Because it shouldn’t be open.
Just like it shouldn’t be fucking red.
Why are all the doors in the house suddenly red?
Seriously, what the fuck is going on around here?
Did they wake up in the middle of the night to paint this shit, just to fuck with me?
Nudging the blockade with the edge of my boot reveals to me a sight that immediately drops me to my knees on a gut wrenching, “Noooooooooooooo!”
Blood from all three of my slaughtered family members unrelentingly drips from every surface.
Our bed.
Nightstands.
Windowsills.
Even the fucking air conditioner vent.
Taunts are scribbled on our headboard.
The walls.
The door.
Each direction my head wildly turns crimson colors coat whatever they can, turning what was once our paradise into something from my deepest, darkest, most disturbed nightmares.
Nightmares…
Nightmare!
The one word repeatedly echoes throughout my mind prompting my head to slowly shift from one side to the other, cheek scraping against a cold, hard, uneven surface.
Faint groans grow in numbers as nausea transitions into actual bile that burns up the back of my throat in search of an escape. Unfortunately, there isn’t much room for my jaw to lower due to the sticky barrier covering my mouth, leaving me with no choice but to clench my teeth.
Squeeze my eyes tighter.
Swallow the chunky, rancid mixture and keep swallowing until it’s returned to its origin.
Additional grumbles of discomfort are attached to the actions, but I push past them.
Force my eyes to open.
Focus.
Figure out where the fuck I am.
What the fuck happened.
How much more of me is restrained.
Despite the unbearable burning in my sinuses, I demand my blurry stare to get it together by blinking rapidly.
Command it to clear away the tears that are making my view hazy.
To let me see my surroundings.
Tiny slivers of moonlight make visually scouring the darkness possible; however, the gusts of cold air rushing across my scraped-up cheek insist on hindering the process.
They beg me to simply shut my eyes again and retreat inward where I can’t feel.
Or think.
An unexpected whimper instantly redirects my attention, prompting me to snap my face the opposite way, knowing the source of the sound better than any other in existence.
“Kidddddd!” rushes out but is effortlessly muted by the tape.
It’s unclear if my attempt is heard.
Fuck, it’s unclear if my attempt can even be heard.
His lack of movement pushes me to crane my face closer.
Study his chest in hopes of seeing it rise.
Fall.
Rise again.
Make any sort of movement that can provide me with a smidgen of fucking hope.
Hope that that noise wasn’t his last dying breath.
Hope that he’ll live.
Hope that he’ll let me see that mischievous glare I love so fucking much.
That bashful grin.
Anxious to have that hope grow, I grate the side of my face against the ground, determined to get a closer look, refusing to believe I’m lying next to his corpse rather than simply him in a momentarily incapacitated state.
The wind howls louder and harder and harsher scolding me for staring by igniting an ache deep in my ears and new stinging sensations in my eyes.
But I can’t look away.
I won’t.
Not until I know.
Not until I see something.
Fuck, anything.
“ComeonKid,” I quietly plead behind the tape. “Openthoseeyesforme.”
Nothing.
“Openem.”
Still.
Nothing.
“Opennnnnthemmmm!” Breathing is only done to collect more air for louder screaming. “Fuckingggggopeennnnnthemmmmmm!”
Yet again.
Nothing.
Not a twitch.
Not a flinch.
Not even an involuntary fucking spasm.
The lump of uneasiness in my throat begins to expand in tandem with summoning the previously shoved down bile back upward.