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That huge story dropped down to 2.5 pages...
An Affair
By Nicholas Frushour
It was the first warm and sunny day of spring, so the streets were wet from the melting snow. Chris, unaffected by the weather, had been crabby all day. Getting picked last for kickball is a big deal in elementary. Chris, an only child, was 11 in the fifth grade but you couldn’t tell. Light shaggy hair covered part of his brown eyes. He always wore loose fitting jeans and shirts to shy his scrawny figure. He was in good shape; he had a long walk to and from school everyday.
Coming down his street, Chris noticed that in the front of his driveway was his mother’s car, behind it and one car length over was his father’s. There were tire tracks leading across the lawn from the empty space created by the position of the cars. Chris was starting to feel worried. Unlocking the door, he noticed the deadbolt wasn’t set. He put his backpack down next to the door and took off his shoes. “Mom?” No answer. He sighed as he pushed the play button on the answering machine: business people; more business people; him; his aunt; his aunt again for him. No sign of where anyone was going or had been all day. Near the back of the house was his parent’s room, he decided to check there to see if they was sleeping. He knocked before quickly pulling the door open.
The first thing he noticed was his dad, who was swinging from the doorway by the neck of his tie. His eye sockets were empty; blood stopped flowing down to his chin and dripping to the floor hours ago. There was a large crimson stain at the crotch of his pants and a trail down to his socks where blood once poured into the pool that gathered beneath him. Next to the pool was a gold band.
Chris didn’t want to go into the room, but his dad was blocking his line of sight and he wanted to see if his mom was in there. He started to push his dad to one side and when he saw, he let go only to send his dad swinging. He couldn’t move his eyes away. In the back of the room, lying on her back on the red and white bed sheets, was his mother. Across her neck was a livid crimson butterfly. Her robe was spread wide open to reveal two red, empty circles where her breasts would be. Next to her hand was a white plastic tube with one small pink line on it. There was a deep stab wound between her belly button and her tan line. The hilt of a small dagger, which Chris recognized as the ceremonial dagger his dad had clipped to his kilt on the day of their wedding, was sticking out of her most private place. It had been inscribed with their names and the date of their wedding, neither of which were visible now.
Chris noticed the phone had been ringing. There was only one ring from when he realized until the answering machine picked up, not that he had been able to inch from where he was standing.
“Carol?” a strange man said. Chris couldn’t recognize the voice. “Carol, I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have left like that.” He sniffled and continued, “I’m such a coward. Please… please call me back.” He had a strange desperation in his voice. “It’ll be okay, we can work it out.” Beeeep. The only sound in the house now was the tape rewinding.
Chris, in shock, took a few slow steps back to distance himself from it. He couldn’t feel anything. Not pain, not sorrow, not confusion, not even the floor beneath his feet. Now, he saw himself moving toward the front door. He felt detached, as if he had no control. He didn’t understand what he was doing, nor did he try to. He opened the door and slowly headed next door.
Everything after that happened on its own. The neighbor, a large bearded guy in red flannel, saw his look of shock and walked him over to his house, since he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He left Chris sitting on the porch, just in case there was still someone in there. When he saw what happened he hurried for the phone.
Chris, now realizing the extent of everything that had happened, felt tears stream down his face. He couldn’t sob or move, he was too afraid. He wished he wouldn’t be lonely but there was no one there to comfort him. A mosquito landed on his arm. Chris saw him, but he couldn’t care. A few more landed, all being allowed to do what they do best. He thought to himself, “Why should I care? I have nothing.”
When the police finally arrived, Chris still didn’t speak. He wouldn’t speak again for another two years.