Head Down

• Eva Baikham, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2018

Icy wind slashes my face as the pouring rain dances upon my head. Eyes heavy, I open the creaky beige door. Entering the aseptic ivory house, a familiar noise doesn’t play. Drowsily I wander towards the dim kitchen. A thick, odious stench fills my nose, making my face scrunch up like wrinkled paper. After hours of work, I decided to reward myself with white wine.
A pool of crimson liquid lays on the floor and I stop abruptly in my tracks. I stagger towards the counter. I Collapse onto the tiles, the fluid from the fridge grows bigger and flows towards me, my face turns miserable. Mouth dry, I swipe my scrawny fingers across the shadowy fluid and it stains my fingers and dots invade my skin. Placing my finger lightly in my mouth, my tongue twists and turns, tasting the iron flavour…My stomach drops deep like an anchor after realising my repulsive action. Raking my mouth rapidly I attempt to rid it of the revolting tang. Lunging for the sink, I turn on the crisp water, attempting to flush it out of my cheeks.
A loud thump breaks the silence and I turn around hastily. Steadily slinking towards the fridge, I grip the chilled handle. Heart racing 100 miles per hour, I swing the door open. An unidentified orb plummets to the ground, right into the carmine coloured fluid splattering it everywhere. In my eyes, on my clothes and in my hair. The orb stops in its tracks and a tongue rolls out. My eyes bulging, a piercing scream escapes my mouth. My legs perish and I descend to the ground. I stare blankly into his eyes. His canvas skin is painted with crimson, veins faintly line his neck, his swollen cheeks lay towards the ground, his miniscule eyes are cloudy and his inky black hair is drenched with droplets trickling down the strands.
“Shit!” I curse. Briskly bringing my body up, I reach for my phone and dial the number that I wished that I never had to use. “There has been a…murder in my house,” I whimper hysterically to the dispatcher.
“Everything will be okay, what is the address mam?” the dispatcher interrogates me.
“54 Ridge Road, Mount Maria,” I reply.
“Don’t worry, the police are on their way,” they reassure me.
As my stomach swells, I barf. Anxiety invades my body and I strip everything, scoring my skin repeatedly. Clueless, I remain standing in my kitchen attempting to make my arms pristine as police sirens wail through the neighbourhood. Barging through the door like elephants, they point their guns towards me.
“Officers, there has…” I shudder.
“You have the right to remain silent. If you do say anything, what you say can be used against you in the court of law!” the officers firmly demand.
Being escorted out of the house, I turn to the head, catching a glimpse of a distinct smile planted on its face.