Fiction: His Final Fulfilment (0.1)

He woke. A cacophony of rattling metal was heard from three rooms away.

In his frail state, Arthur rose from the half empty bed. He gradually slipped on his dressing robe over his skeleton like body. Making his passive journey to the kitchen in search of his new wife, he checked the time on his watch, partially consumed by loose skin. Another clatter came from the same room. Close to the entrance, he called for her yet it left his lips as barely a whisper.

“Sweetie! You scared me. I didn’t mean to wake you.” Kylie spoke softly. Both hands held behind her back she continued to smile.

Arthur coughed before replying. “What are you doing? It’s nearly three in the morning.” He stroked his balding head as he leant into the door frame. His eyes grey with the memories of trauma equalled with immense happiness.

He was coming to his end.

“I’m sorry. I, I couldn’t sleep. Do you want me to help you back to bed?” She walked towards him, hands still not visible.

“I’m not dead yet. I can get myself into bed.” He responded viciously. Arthur stumbled through the hallway, holding each wall and cabinet within. As he crawled back into the heavy sheets he sat for a moment or two. In the ninety years he had lived and learned, his eye for suspicious circumstances was still as accurate as in the beginning of his life.

Pulling open the drawers that stood beside him, he placed a hand inside. First pulling out a photograph of Kylie on the first day of their honeymoon. Arthur predicted that would be the last holiday he would go on.

He proceeded to pull out another object yet his actions were interrupted by the bedroom door. It had opened but due to the lack of light, the figure had not been revealed. He could only assume it was his wife. The room suffocated with shadows and intensive silence. Neither one moved their bodies with the exception of their chests that breathed excessively. Fear floated through the winter air as it chased his thoughts of tranquillity in his head. The distance between them remained. Continued reticence was all that existed in the last few seconds.

Then she moved.

Pouncing onto his decrepit frame she raised a sharpened blade above his face. Panic coursed its way through his veins, mixed with his blood. Headlights that sped past the window exposed her cold eyes, wide with terror.

A gun shot.

Placed directly in the centre of the head, a bullet wound spat out a plethora of flaming plasma. The body lingered on his before a sudden fall to the floor. Its blood soaked the carpet as it dripped through each crevice of the face giving it the colour it was losing. Relief crawled from his mouth and dispersed into the early morning air.

He finally killed.

His brain choked on memories. Every weapon he produced. Each book collaged with his psychopathic desires. All things he kept classified engulfed him.

Ninety years walking the planet. Ninety years he held back the urge to murder.


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