Afternoon Tea

The blood was everywhere or so it seemed for Sara. Her dress was ruined and so was the carpet, the stray thought about cleaning bills sneaking into her mind uninvited. She felt dirty and cheap, somewhat responsible, but the slightly more sane part of her mind assured her that this wasn’t her fault.

After all, he’d tried to kill her.

It was a very peculiar situation, this. She found this strand of thought slightly discomforting but not enough to wonder where it came from. The tea kettle whined and she stepped over the remains of Bryan without a second thought, entering the petit kitchen and making herself a cup of tea. It tasted bitter and sweet and was too hot to drink, but she felt nothing and could almost understand that this was just a memory of a morning some months ago.

She found a tooth in her tea. It was hers. Better not delve into that, her mind of minds said, and instead she went rummaging after a biscuit because that was what they’d had in London that one time, in the hotel room with the slanted floor.

A faint smell of feces annoyed her nose, but she forced it away with her mind. It was nothing, she thought, which felt like betrayal somewhere deep in the back of her head. Instead she focused on the pain in her wrist, and suddenly she realized that her hand was hanging limp and that she was in a lot of pain.

Minutes passed uneventful. She put on a pot of coffee, craving the caffeine. The smell reminded her of all those mornings, sharing the breakfast table as well as the newspaper. Her memories were lost when a tablet gave a last pitiful cry before entering sleep mode, its life force temporarily drained, much like the ruined body of Frank in the chair beside her.

She longed for a hot chocolate but found nothing of the sorts.

"Police!" yelled a voice from outside and she wondered why the blinds were closed. She didn’t feel like answering the door so she had a glass of water, splashing some in her face and looked about in the room.

The man on the floor had died in blood and vomit, cut from ear to ear with a vase stuffed down his throat. He was very handsome, she thought.

The man in the chair smelled of feces and had a huge knife jammed through his neck, his grey college shirt ruined by all the blood. She found him very handsome too.

But something was amiss.

At the counter there was one cup of tea, another with coffee, and the empty one where she had intended to make hot coco. The tea smelled delicious, the coffee aroma was pleasant, but the empty glass was just empty, barren and dead.

And then there it was, all done, hot chocolate, sweet with some whipped cream. She took it and sat down on the floor, closing her eyes to the smells and enjoying the lazy Sunday afternoon.

She spilled, she must have, because her chest was sticky and wet.

The police found them, horribly butchered all. For some reason they all felt like something hot to drink while examining the scene, and perhaps a donut with that.