Read Online A Life Transparent by Todd Keisling - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Todd Keisling
Tags: General Fiction
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when all this happened. He took a step forward and saw the scattered pattern of footprints in the dusting of flour. A cold shard of ice shot down the length of his spine.
It was the ensemble of cutlery scattered across the floor at the end of the room that finally jarred him from his panic. The wooden block, home to all of Donna’s sharp knives, was overturned in front of the refrigerator door. His blood pressure rose as he looked at their chaotic placement across the tile. His heart beat a tribal call in his chest. He knew from the assortment that there weren’t enough knives. Some of them were missing.
In his panic, Donna’s name became a constant thrum, creating an inner vibration that urged him to move.
“Donna?” he called out. He didn’t like the sound of his voice. It sounded too small, too weak, and he realized it didn’t matter because she probably couldn’t hear him, anyway.
Might be best shut your mouth, hoss. S’pose you ain’t alone?
If he wasn’t alone, then who might still be in the house with him? His imagination built the scenario. Donna was preparing to bake a cake when someone—man or woman, it didn’t matter—burst into the room, catching her off guard, and—
He looked at the knives again. The mental scenario played on in the back of his head. He pictured a person in a black ski mask lurking in their bedroom closet. Donna was on the bed, bound, and gagged. Seeing her there in such a state, he would rush in with his guard down, and then—
He swallowed, and his throat clicked. His heart beat with such force that his whole body shook. Donovan blinked. He knelt, plucking a steak knife from the floor, and followed signs of the struggle into the dining room.
Donovan froze. Blood dotted the table cloth. He moved along the edge of the table, whispering a silent prayer that it didn’t belong to his wife. A lump rose in his throat, making breathing difficult.
He saw Mr. Precious Paws on the other side of the table, and his legs gave out. He fell to his knees and found that he could not blink. The first thing that came to mind was a simple, absurd thought:
So that’s what happened to the knives.
Mr. Precious Paws lay sprawled on the floor, the largest of Donna’s butcher knives buried in his back. Another jutted out the back of the cat’s neck, indicated by a stream of arterial spray that hit the opposing wall and formed a dark trail leading back to the dead animal. Mr. Precious Paws’ eyes were dilated, affixed on a point in space beyond the room. He looked terrified.
Donovan bit his lower lip and grimaced at the taste of bile at the back of his throat. His efforts couldn’t last, and he retched.
“Mr. Precious Paws,” he whimpered. The reality of the situation struck him. “Oh God, Donna!”
Blinded by panic, Donovan dropped the knife as he scrambled out of the room and up the stairs. He called out to his wife as he ran, his heart exploding in his chest. He threw open the bedroom door, ignorant of the scenario concocted by his imagination. She wasn’t on the bed, nor was there a masked man waiting to ambush him.
“
Donna!
” He screamed until his throat burned, the words scratching their way out of him like a frightened animal. The bathroom was empty, as were the office and spare bedroom at the end of the hall.
Donna
, his mind raced.
Donna, Donna, Donna
. Spots of black and purple blossomed across his field of vision, and he teetered on his feet.
When the splotches of color dimmed, Donovan found himself filled with a new urgency. The cops. He had to call the cops. On his way into the office, he realized he’d trampled right through the crime scene.
They’ll get over it, hoss.
Hopper’s words cooled him. He sucked in his breath and reached for the phone—when it rang.
It startled him. He looked at the black cordless as though he’d never seen it before, its screen lighting up to say UNKNOWN CALLER. Donovan pressed TALK. He lifted it to his ear and tried to speak, but
It was the ensemble of cutlery scattered across the floor at the end of the room that finally jarred him from his panic. The wooden block, home to all of Donna’s sharp knives, was overturned in front of the refrigerator door. His blood pressure rose as he looked at their chaotic placement across the tile. His heart beat a tribal call in his chest. He knew from the assortment that there weren’t enough knives. Some of them were missing.
In his panic, Donna’s name became a constant thrum, creating an inner vibration that urged him to move.
“Donna?” he called out. He didn’t like the sound of his voice. It sounded too small, too weak, and he realized it didn’t matter because she probably couldn’t hear him, anyway.
Might be best shut your mouth, hoss. S’pose you ain’t alone?
If he wasn’t alone, then who might still be in the house with him? His imagination built the scenario. Donna was preparing to bake a cake when someone—man or woman, it didn’t matter—burst into the room, catching her off guard, and—
He looked at the knives again. The mental scenario played on in the back of his head. He pictured a person in a black ski mask lurking in their bedroom closet. Donna was on the bed, bound, and gagged. Seeing her there in such a state, he would rush in with his guard down, and then—
He swallowed, and his throat clicked. His heart beat with such force that his whole body shook. Donovan blinked. He knelt, plucking a steak knife from the floor, and followed signs of the struggle into the dining room.
Donovan froze. Blood dotted the table cloth. He moved along the edge of the table, whispering a silent prayer that it didn’t belong to his wife. A lump rose in his throat, making breathing difficult.
He saw Mr. Precious Paws on the other side of the table, and his legs gave out. He fell to his knees and found that he could not blink. The first thing that came to mind was a simple, absurd thought:
So that’s what happened to the knives.
Mr. Precious Paws lay sprawled on the floor, the largest of Donna’s butcher knives buried in his back. Another jutted out the back of the cat’s neck, indicated by a stream of arterial spray that hit the opposing wall and formed a dark trail leading back to the dead animal. Mr. Precious Paws’ eyes were dilated, affixed on a point in space beyond the room. He looked terrified.
Donovan bit his lower lip and grimaced at the taste of bile at the back of his throat. His efforts couldn’t last, and he retched.
“Mr. Precious Paws,” he whimpered. The reality of the situation struck him. “Oh God, Donna!”
Blinded by panic, Donovan dropped the knife as he scrambled out of the room and up the stairs. He called out to his wife as he ran, his heart exploding in his chest. He threw open the bedroom door, ignorant of the scenario concocted by his imagination. She wasn’t on the bed, nor was there a masked man waiting to ambush him.
“
Donna!
” He screamed until his throat burned, the words scratching their way out of him like a frightened animal. The bathroom was empty, as were the office and spare bedroom at the end of the hall.
Donna
, his mind raced.
Donna, Donna, Donna
. Spots of black and purple blossomed across his field of vision, and he teetered on his feet.
When the splotches of color dimmed, Donovan found himself filled with a new urgency. The cops. He had to call the cops. On his way into the office, he realized he’d trampled right through the crime scene.
They’ll get over it, hoss.
Hopper’s words cooled him. He sucked in his breath and reached for the phone—when it rang.
It startled him. He looked at the black cordless as though he’d never seen it before, its screen lighting up to say UNKNOWN CALLER. Donovan pressed TALK. He lifted it to his ear and tried to speak, but
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