The dog tugged on its chain, a low growl deep in its throat. Damon looked down at the terrier and scowled at it. It was a cute little black-and-white thing. At least, it would be if it wasn't snarling at him.
"Move along," he muttered to the creature as it haunted him. Damon realized why he hated his job. He walked up to the porch and gently tapped the door. Without waiting for an answer, he plopped the package down at the door and keyed into his DIAD that the package had been delivered.
Stepping down from the steps, the terrier lunged at him again, the chain straining. The growls had culminated into high-pitched barks. Most delivery drivers wouldn't have delivered the package with an angry dog guarding the door.
Damon didn't care. He was not in the mood for dogs today. He wanted a reason to kick something and release his tension for agreeing to work overtime. The afternoon sun burned his skin, and the sweat on his back ran down his underwear.
He jumped into his truck and sighed heavily, pulling out his phone. Unable to help himself, he pulled up Insta-pic. He had set up a fake profile to watch seductive videos or dirty photos behind Olivia's back. After being married for several years, he felt unappreciated for being the single breadwinner.
After scrolling through several videos, Damon pulled out his half-finished marijuana joint and lit it in the back of the truck so the fan could blow out the smoke. It was the only time he smoked behind Olivia's back. She would give him a guilt trip if he did it in the house. Damon hated having so many secrets behind his wife but thought they were on two opposite paths. Damon didn't care about life. He only lived for the moment.
"One moment, you're here. One moment you're not." Damon always told himself.
Olivia managed the money and kept them on even grounds. Even if it meant Damon couldn't have a few extra dollars in his wallet. He hated not being in control of his finances, especially when his name was on the checks, mortgage, bills, and car.
They tried to have children, but they discovered Olivia suffered from polycystic ovarian syndrome. She couldn't conceive. It crushed them both. He felt guilty when he didn't do enough to console her about her diagnosis. She turned to God for answers, and he turned to self-desires to escape the world he signed up for when he said.
"I do!"
When he was scrolling through pictures, his envy of people grew as they flaunted living the luxurious life. A life he wished he had without Olivia. The dance videos turned into images of lust that consumed his guilty conscious. He finished smoking and tucked his phone away. He was cursing his job under his breath and showing hatred for delivering packages.
He grabbed the flat package–a light thing for the size–and stepped down from his truck. He dropped it anyway. Rolling his eyes, becoming livid with life.
“Stupid package.”
He was trying to blame it for falling. He kicked it before he picked it up. Straining his back for moving fast. He cursed his job, life, and wife. Damon realized he was mad because he was hungry after smoking, and his wife wouldn't let him spend his money on a cheeseburger.
It was Damon's daily routine. The time of the day, he told himself.
"Life Sucks!”
After he stretched his back, he grew more annoyed by the noise.
That dog down the street was still barking at him. Damon gave the dog the peace sign and kept moving toward the front door.
He hadn't been to this house before. He admired this one. The house was prim and tidy, with professional landscaping. Curtains hung at the windows; an intricate glass design framed the door. A metal elephant sat beside the door, welcoming him.
"Dang, this is nice," Damon thought, looking at the elephant and running his fingers around its trunk.
Damon paused at the steps and knocked on the door before setting the package down. As he was keying in a delivery confirmation, a loud crash sounded, like a lamp had fallen. A bloodcurdling scream resonated inside the house.
Damon's heart leaped in his throat. He stepped back from the door. Almost tripping over his own feet. What was he hearing? Domestic abuse? Or had the cat knocked over a vase?
Then he heard a loud thumping sound with a strangled cry, followed by, “Please, don't hurt me!" In a shrill female voice.
"What the heck?" Damon said to himself. He was a little confused by what he heard.
That wasn't a broken vase. Damon froze before he acted. Wanting to get confirmation something was wrong and not just in his head.
Damon tried the door. "Ma'am?" He asked, heart pounding. "Is everything all right in there?"
He heard a smack, another cry, followed by scuffling before a yelp, this one lower, a grunt.
Damon soared over the flowerbed to the nearest window and peered inside—an empty guest bedroom.
Rushing back to the door, he tried it again, then pressed the doorbell. "Ma'am, Should I call someone?"
Silence answered him. Damon pondered. Every second seemed like an eternity. The lonely street sent chills down his spine.
He thought this wasn't the time to be a hero. He had enough problems to worry about. His job, wife, and bills. Plus, he knew he was high as a kite.
His instincts screamed at him to return to the truck and call for help. He didn't want to deal with any misfortunes.
However, curiosity got the better of him. Hearing the cries kept playing in his mind. What if she was Olivia and needed help? He would want someone to do something.
Grabbing the metal elephant, he rushed to the guest bedroom door, smashing the glass. It shattered louder than he expected, making him wince. He looked around to see if anyone saw what he had done. The sun blinded his vision. He saw trees dancing and the wind circling the leaves into dust devils as he returned to focus on the broken window.
He went for it. Crawling inside and cutting his forearm on the glass as he jumped through the screen. Adrenaline strengthened him. Damon rushed out of the bedroom and into the entryway. Seeing nothing, he wandered into the living room. His heart was racing, with his palms sweating. Not noticing the blood from his forearm dripping on the carpet in every room he entered.
He halted, stomach twisting. "Shoot," he swore as his eyes widened. Focusing his attention on the dim room, he entered. Damon placed his hands on top of his head. The room felt chilly as he got lightheaded.
Damon could hear his heartbeat as his knees became fragile. Then he realized what he was seeing.
A middle-aged woman faced down on the carpet, dark hair a stark contrast against the buttery color. But that wasn't what caught Damon's attention.
Blood soaked the carpet around her head. Nausea swept Damon, and he had to take a couple of deep breaths to keep from vomiting all over the floor. Damon hunched over with his hands on his knees. Wheezing like he had an asthma attack, he couldn't keep his eyes off the woman.
Next to the woman was a bookend, missing from her library and stained with the same deep red blood. Someone had smashed her head with it.
Damon took a quick look around the house. The perpetrator had to still be in there. "Hello?" He called. He couldn't see anything in the room. Silenced echoed his call. Darkness followed.
His voice was strained.
"I need some help in here!"
There was no answer.
Damon approached the woman, taking careful steps. His adrenaline didn't notice the blood coming from his forearm. She laid still.
He hesitated. In all the crime shows he had watched, the rule was not to touch a body until the police arrived. But what if she wasn't dead? He had to check. Crouching, he turned her over. Wide, terrified brown eyes met his. Her mouth was agape, her tongue swollen. Harsh red marks laced her throat. Someone had strangled her, then smashed her head. Her body was still warm.
With shaking fingers, Damon felt for a pulse. Nothing. He checked again for reassurance. Nothing.
"Oh, God," he breathed, trying to swallow. "Dang it." He stood after he set her down, mind racing. He needed to call the police.
Damon turned around, terrified, when he thought he heard the floor crackle.
"Hey!" he screamed into the house. "Who's in here?"
Again, no one answered, but the echo of his voice was calling back to him. Was the killer still inside the house? Damon glanced down at the once fancy bookend, now covered in blood. It was a proper weapon for the killer. It will make for a decent defense weapon for him. He reached across the woman's body and picked it up.
"Fight or flight!" Damon said to himself. Trying to boost his confidence. He took a practice swing.
Armed with the bloodied bookend, Damon lurked through the house, heart beating out of his chest.
He checked every room. No one else seemed home.
"Shoot," he muttered. Damon retrieved his phone and dialed emergency services. But didn't hit send call. He stared at his screen for several moments. The blood on his phone would be hard to explain.
If he made the call, who's to say they don't name him a prime suspect? Would they believe he had arrived at the exact wrong time?
And what about the break-in? Would he get fined or fired for that?
Olivia would kill him if they had to lose more money than they had to. Taking a random drug test right now would be trouble for him. Things had been rough after he had been laid off from the cable company.
Damon looked down at the woman. Her face tilted at the ceiling as if she had spotted crude graffiti scrawled there. For a second, the face looked like Olivia's. Damon adjusted his eyes as the marijuana continued to fog his mind.
He tucked his phone away with his bloody palms. He was still holding the bookend. He clenched his fingers. Leaving his prints and her stained blood around it.
The blood on his forearm was drying, but he still didn't notice. He tucked the bookend under his uniform. Taking deep breaths, he marched to the front door. Using his shirt as a glove. He unlocked it. Eased the door open, looking left and right to see if anyone saw him.
The dog had shut up. He had that going for him. Damon shut the door behind him and glanced at the broken window. He prayed no one had driven by or glanced out their window when he had shattered it. Stepping over the package he had delivered, he stepped into the driveway.
Vomit curled up in his throat. He had to get to his truck. If he reached his vehicle, he would be fine.
Each step felt slow and uneven.
He pulled himself up into his truck, and the bookend slipped under his shirt and landed with a heavy thud on the floor.
"Shucks," he croaked. He didn't bother picking it up. Damon started his truck. He had to get out of that neighborhood.
