Another Mess: Incomplete Story

The heavy metallic scent hit him before he opened the door. He paused, hand squeezing the knob, debating whether he should return to the safety of his car. Tamping down the nauseating combination of nerves and twisted excitement, he entered the house.

It hit him like a wall. The thick, tinny smell became an iron taste that coated the back of his throat. He almost choked on it as he stepped into the foyer. Swallowing, he closed the door behind him, letting his feet and imagination propel him forward even though his head screamed for him to turn back.

He knew she’d been here. Just beneath the thick smell of blood he could smell her perfume. A lilac scent mixed with a hint of cherry that seemed like a fond memory. His stomach clenched as he inhaled it, sadness swamping him as more evidence of her presence revealed itself.

Stepping lightly down the hallway, he entered the living room and halted in the entryway. The smell almost brought him to his knees.

Blood speckled the white walls. Splatters covered from carpet to the high ceiling. The pattern was as beautiful as it was grotesque, and it was hard to draw his eyes away from the art of it.

He finally gave in to the inclination to look around the rest of the room. The blood covering the walls paled in hue to the congealed mess decorating the once beige carpet.

“God, Helen, what did you do?”

The words flew from his lips and he gripped his chest to still the race of his heart.

It looked as though a child had torn its favorite toy apart and tossed the pieces all about, except the stench and filth told him what really occurred.

Bits of tissue and chunks of flesh mingled with blood and other unidentifiable substances on the floor. It covered one whole end of the living room, spilling through the connecting archway into the kitchen. Bile rose up like volcanic lava in his throat. Before he could stem it, vomit filled his mouth and he barely turned his head to prevent it from covering his clothes.

The wave of nausea subsided, but the bitter taste would not be quelled by a few weak swallows of saliva. He passed a shaky hand over his mouth and turned back to the carnage before him.

This was his sister’s handiwork. The marks of her psychosis were written on the ceiling above the mess. He didn’t even need to look to know what she’d scrawled there, her mutters were echoing in his ears.

“Kill the sinners who kill the children. Kill the adulterer, idolater, blasphemer all. Rip them to pieces just as they’ve ripped the truth to pieces.”

No one listened when he warned them of her possession, her insanity, and now she believed herself to be the sword of judgement for The Lord. The death toll was starting to become noticeably large.

His knees wobbled as he backtracked out of the house, unconcerned about the prints he left behind. He had to save Helen from herself at any cost.