You are a Death Risk
by BD Scott
Dremond has endured enough in the last 48 hours.
And now he is alone, trying to piece it all together or he loses his only means of employment and possibly his wife.
His daydreams are mixing with actual dreams, making him question his sanity.
After his day ended on a throughly embarrassing and terrifying note, the vision of the blood-soaked woman in the building window, an even scarier thought of his wife hovering over him with a bat and the pranked bloody mask in his own likeness thrown at his feet during work culminated into a fit of momentary rage with his fists smashing his steering wheel.
He was told to get himself into rehab or his job was toast.
But he wasn’t on the bottle. And he couldn’t tell anyone because this town was full of people down on their luck, and they were as angry if not angrier than him. Plus, there were families in situations in much greater need.
Who can a man turn to?
Thoughts of God, religion and old men in black dresses peppered his brain with persistence, like a child screaming at its mother for satisfaction. But Dremond was no child. And the thought of God was so far away as a solution because his own upbringing was tainted by disbelief and agnostic living.
The proverbial rock and hard spot on either side of his mind offered inadequate consolation.
Maybe it’s all in my own tired head.
His critical mind snapped into gear once his pickup truck passed mile 53. It would be at least thirty more miles before hitting home.
Quiet your mind and just think this through or you’ll reach for the bottle again.
SAME NIGHT, SAME TIME IN DREMOND’S HOME
“What’s this?” Dremond’s wife asked, picking up a book on her husband’s night stand.
She opened it randomly and found a page she kept re-reading.
The five stages of grief are:
“What is he grieving? I didn’t hit him that hard the other night.”
She slumped to the floor, thinking the worst.
“Or is he’s getting rid of me?”
She curled in a ball on the bed, sobbing and forgetting to shut her computer off in the den.
Between sobs she came to a conclusion, “Wait a second, he’s drinking again.”
She took a tissue, cleaned her face up and walked into her study and closed the door.
MILES AWAY IN HIS CAR
Dremond paused his crazed drive home and settled within a fuel station. After fueling up, he turned his car around and simply drove.
And he wasn’t going home tonight.
BACK IN TOWN IN THE HIGH RISE ACROSS FROM THE WORK SITE, SAME NIGHT, SAME HOUR
“Did you hear that, Ma?” Freddie asked of his disabled mother, who sat for the seventeenth consecutive hour in her newly paid for wheelchair, quietly reading.
The rustle of pages between her fingers proved loud enough to only have her hear every other word.
“Hear, that? What?”
“That scream. It was pretty harsh. Might be the neighbours going at it.”
“What scream? Are you in the bathroom with your dirty computer videos again?”
“No Ma! Someone sounds like they’ve been badly hurt. I’ll go check.”
“Hold up, baby boy. You’re my meal ticket around here. I need you here. Go back to what you were doing. I didn’t hear no scream.”
“But, ma. Someone might be hurt.”
“You heard what I said.”
Inside a room down the hall, blood bathed the wooded flooring. Capillaries and veins lay strewn and separated from muscle tissues torn from the female form which lay motionless right by the open window.
A dark figure wisked its way across the empty room, blending into the darkest corner of the room.
To Be Continued
BD Scott, Author, Producer of Bestshorthorrorstories.com & Founder of Friedrich Imagines, Ltd. a media production company