Red Snow

I set off through the fast falling snow, the bitter cold bit into my drying skin as the wind blew delicate white flakes to my face. The streets were lifeless, the shining streetlights emphasising the subtly falling snow as the scent of burning wood from the chimneys sunk into the already gloomy, lifeless night.

I continued walking for what seemed like endless hours, the soles of my heels aching as my chest began to burn. I was close now; I walked towards the front door as I fished for the keys in my pocket. I suddenly felt a large push from my side. As the wind filled my ears and cold mud splashed onto my clothes, I noticed that I was pushed away. It was Mr. Johnson, out neighbour from across the street. He lay on the ground with blood slowly pouring from his nose. He had been hit. With what and by whom, I had no idea. All I knew is that he saved me. He was conscious but in shock unable to talk. He just lay there idly blinking as I did, just as mortified as he was.

As I lay trying to regain some sort of composure, at least enough to stand up, I noticed Mrs. Johnson pulling up. I was helping Mr. Johnson up as she hurried to our side and I explained the situation. She didn’t seem horrified or greatly surprised, which at first struck me as odd, but I later figured it she probably was just overwhelmed by the incident to say much. Helping Mr. Johnson to his home, I attempted helping him inside, her high yet fragile voice mixed with the cold air as she quickly rejected me, most likely because I was covered in mud.

I finally got home. My old wooden floorboards each creaked to greet me in a sorrowful way, as if they knew what was going on. I sat on the withering chair beside the window; the snow continued to fall restlessly reflecting the streetlights yellow glow creating an uneasy feeling inside me. As the shock began to wear off, the realisation of the situation began to sink in. It was a murder attempt, yet a weak one at that. There wouldn’t be a logical reason just to injure me and leave me on the roadside. My home was in a well protected safe part of town, regularly patrolled by police officers, so the intruder was either a master of disguise, or, scarily, somebody from the inside. The black of the night suddenly became too overwhelming and what felt like a ton of bricks sunk onto my eyelids.

When I woke again the sun was midway to rising and the sky was already burning a pink-yellow. I impatiently got on with the days tasks waiting for the hours to pass so that I could call to see if the Johnson’s were feeling any better.

It was finally time; I grabbed the phone. It was her weak voice scratching at my ears once again. Once again deny access to her home. I just wanted to check on Mr. Jonson but she quickly and sternly rejected me and hung up.

I was finally aware of what was going on. It was her. The attempt was not made at me, but as her husband. She knew exactly what time he was due home, and that he would save me from what was coming. She denied me entry to her home, she clearly had the weapon in there and they were now having breakfast together. The victim and the murderer.