The prompt song this week was:
Make it Rain, by Tom Waits
John was soaked to the skin and all he could hear in his
head were the lyrics ‘make it rain’. It had rained and rained heavily in his
life, he’d been blessed with so much. But despite the present torrential
downpour in the real world, the drought in his personal life had just begun and
he was getting ready to enter the desert.
He could feel himself burning already, with all the
emotions, but there was one he could put a stop to; one he could clear up, and
he looked forward to it. Under the light of a passing car his grin lit up.
He checked his pocket again to reassure himself as he
arrived at the apartment block. The night lights surrounding the building
reflected the rain and gave it a sinister feel, one he hadn’t seen on his
previous visits. But then he knew what he was about to do, and he smiled at the
prospect.
He pressed all the security buzzers to the apartments,
except the one he intended to call on; he knew someone would open the door
without questioning it. Seconds later he was taking the stairs two at a time,
the adrenaline giving his legs more strength than they usually had, and in
moments he was at the front door.
John stood there breathing, letting his heart rate reduce as
he thought about his next move. He brought the key out of his pocket, but knew
the occupant better than that; he simply turned the handle and found the door
unlocked.
It was dark inside and he stood in the lounge listening. It
wasn’t long before their moans reached him. He knew they’d be busy, and it
seemed they’d been busy for years longer than their lies had declared.
He took the knife out of his pocket and enjoyed the weight
of it in his gloved hand. It was one from her favourite set; a Christmas gift
he’d spoiled her with all those years ago, when giving knives to your wife was
a perfectly normal thing to do and no doubt would creep into your head about
how they could be used against you one day. He rubbed at the freshly healed wound
on his ribcage. He tried to stem the pain it sparked, but it was internal now, and
twisted itself up, wanting to scream its betrayal. He would quell it in a
moment.
John stepped towards the bedroom door, the thick carpet
soaking up the sound. Mark had always insisted on having the best of
everything, never caring about the cost, maybe that was why he’d been able to
do this so easily to his friend, with no remorse as the sounds coming through
the door demonstrated. He stopped to listen again, and like coals to the fire,
it helped his rage swell, and enabled him to believe his plans were rational.
He turned the doorknob fraction by fraction, using their
moans to cover each movement. Then he opened the door a crack at a time, their
writhing bodies coming into view, silhouetted by the light from the window.
They hadn’t even had the decency to close the curtains.
His movement became fluid as he rushed to the bedside and
thrust the knife into the back of whoever was on top. It took a couple of
seconds for the body underneath to register what was happening, enough for John
to pull the knife out and douse their screams in a flood of blood with a swift
stroke to the neck.
As soon as he was done he dropped the knife, knowing the
rest of the set was already here, along with the rest of the things she had
moved over after their fight the week before. He left as quietly as he had
entered, shutting all the doors, leaving it as he found it – well, almost, then
using the stairs again, before letting the rain wash him clean of any residue.
Only once on the plane the following day, did he allow
himself a thought about it, and acknowledge the tremble in his hands. But he
could work that out in time, something he had plenty of now.
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