I'm a middle aged woman in a wheelchair. The room is dark. The only light is coming through the doorway to the other room. He's in that room. I know he's angry. Insanely angry.
Suddenly I hear the screams of a young man, a friend of mine, from that room. The screams fall short and cease. I know he's dead. Killed by my husband, the maddened creature in the next room.
I feel a sudden paranoid urge to move away from the door. For some reason, I suspect that he may be in this very room. I roll to the far side of the room, away from the doorway. All I see in the dark is the cluttered bookshelf. Maybe I can talk to my husband, calm him down. I call out to him sweetly. Hoping that he'll listen to reason. Hoping I can win his favor. I realize leaving the doorway in the first place was a mistake. I should get out of this house, but instead I go back to the doorway. I don't see him in the room.
Suddenly I sense his presence behind me. I try to speak, to say something, anything to save myself. But before I can speak, I feel his blade scrape accross my throat. It doesn't really hurt, it just feels like a small scratch, but I know it is deep. Almost to the bone. That's when I realize it's too late to argue. Too late to talk. Too late for anything. I feel the warmth of my blood trickling down and then.. Nothing.
