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Rated: ASR · Fiction · Other · #694028
Flash Fiction born from my late night trek through the living room.
Cathy cupped her throbbing foot sideways in her right hand while holding onto the arm of the couch with her left palm, steadying herself, as she stood in the awkward position. The tips of her toes ached from the banging they'd just taken against the coffee table’s thick mahogany leg. She rubbed her foot until the pain subsided, and then lowered her leg. The ache remained, drumming softly through her half-awake haze, but at least her toes weren't broken. They wiggled effortlessly when she tested them.

Standing straight, readying herself to limp the rest of her way through the darkness, to the kitchen, Cathy spotted the red orbs. And froze.

Midnight’s silence coiled around her. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears.

Something was crouched near the television.

Whatever it was, its eyes were two round, beady, piercing, crimson drops.

Fully awake now, Cathy ducked behind the sofa, all remnants of her previous pain gone from the forefront of her mind. Some kind of creature was in the house, and had gotten a good sight of her. If it was any type of normal wild animal, she was sure it had predator instincts. It was stoic, for now, but there was no telling when it would attack. A weapon. She needed a weapon.

She shot glances around the living room, her eyes darting left, right, and then straight ahead, as she mentally searched the room. Perfect, her mind screamed when her eyes fell on the thick, crystal vase sitting on the mantle. No, Allan would have a fit, she reluctantly decided. The vase had cost him a small fortune when he’d bought it years ago from an obscure antique shop. A strange history was attached to the vase, but she’d heard so many of the stories from the antiques Allan had collected over the past six years that she’d long since stopped caring. Her husband’s weird tales went in one ear and out of her other ear, these days, whenever he bought new antiques. But maybe she shouldn’t have taken the stories for granted, considering what she was now facing. Had Allan ever mentioned any of the antiques being associated with a red-eyed creature?! She couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter, now, anyway. All that mattered was a viable weapon.

The books! Her eyes landed on the tall bookcases along the east wall. Tossing the books might put the creature on the run; get it to move, at least. But the thing could pounce her way. She would have to take the chance; do anything besides allow herself to be held hostage.

Cathy twisted around to peer over the top edge of the sofa. Cold, seething eyes stared back at her. She caught her breath, and crouched lower. Of course! As she squatted, she finally gazed the perfect weapon.

Drawing deep breaths, she sprinted from behind the sofa.

She grabbed the wooden bat from the umbrella bin near the front door. With her weapon clutched in her slightly damp palms, she ran toward the eyes.

The creature’s shell crackled, and burst apart beneath Cathy’s forceful blows.

Allan’s footsteps rumbled along the staircase as he ran downstairs, shouting his wife’s name.

A sizzle filled the room. Cathy screamed, and jumped backwards. An electrical pop cut through the sizzle. “Oh, my God,” she breathed, as smoke tingled her nose hairs.

“What's going on?” Allan shouted. He clicked on the lamp beside the couch.

“Oh, my God,” Cathy repeated. Her words brimed with disbelief, this time.

“Great,” Allan resigned, his eyes lowered to the thing his wife bludgeoned to death. “You murdered the VCR.”

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