The lightning flashed, followed by cascading peals of thunder. I was waiting for John, made late by the storm.
“Damn, the lights!” I jump, then find a candle, lighting it I trip over the cat as she hops through her flap carrying something.
“What do you have, kitty?” I ask, trying to distract myself from deafening reverberations of thunder shaking my sanity.
I reach for her prize, but drop it in horror. It’s a bloody, severed finger. I look outside and thought departs. All I can do is scream and scream.
My husband’s wet, still frame is illuminated by relentless lightning. His eyes locked open, staring. The broken glass table lying on edge between his hand and crushed, severed fingers.
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