The Closeted Daughters Of The Kaprovki's Family
A symmetrical X-shape faucet knob left a trace of mold by the water that dripped from the shower head above, the tapping sound it made reverberated and bouncing in the four-wall enclosed bathroom. Towels hanged loosely on the hanger - which was screwed intact to the wall, a trace of passion fruit bathing gel smell evaporated, filled up the air, not so strong but faint enough to bring such serenity in the room.
The wet humid steam emerged from the running water from the faucet - spiralling like a hurricane - filling fast the creamy oval-shape bath tub that once was emptied after Sady left the house, the house that Mr Abigail loved most, the tub that has soaked the body of the girls of Kaprovki, the girls that were thought to be the reason why the house was built in the first place, or the reason why this tub has been abandoned, with yellowish of soap sediment on the tub's floor.
There were many red dots on the wall, some of them so micro they were only visible if looked closely, some of it were so huge, not so circular, tattered shape, like a can of paint being hit by one baseball bat, sending a jet of inconsistent dots to the canvas. Except these dots on the wall were not chemically identified as human-manufactured paint, more biological, with pungent and acrid smell once lingered in the air, replacing the sweet smell of passion fruit bathing gel, giving the sensation of sickness like one experiences every morning, the sense of puking while brushing teeth.
Fred lied on the floor, with head covered in thick, almost clotted blood. He heard his breath brushed against his unshaved stubble, so serene that that was the only sound he could hear at that time, and grateful that at least he could hear the sound created by the air circulation in his body, lest this very day was the last day of his life.
And he remembered, along the line of script in the movies, and the words from the novel he read, that your whole life would flash back in front of your eyes, like a projector, putting good memories for you to cherish, to have the good thoughts before rest in peace (if God permits) for the rest of your afterlife.
And Fred was still waiting for that moment to come.
The wet humid steam emerged from the running water from the faucet - spiralling like a hurricane - filling fast the creamy oval-shape bath tub that once was emptied after Sady left the house, the house that Mr Abigail loved most, the tub that has soaked the body of the girls of Kaprovki, the girls that were thought to be the reason why the house was built in the first place, or the reason why this tub has been abandoned, with yellowish of soap sediment on the tub's floor.
There were many red dots on the wall, some of them so micro they were only visible if looked closely, some of it were so huge, not so circular, tattered shape, like a can of paint being hit by one baseball bat, sending a jet of inconsistent dots to the canvas. Except these dots on the wall were not chemically identified as human-manufactured paint, more biological, with pungent and acrid smell once lingered in the air, replacing the sweet smell of passion fruit bathing gel, giving the sensation of sickness like one experiences every morning, the sense of puking while brushing teeth.
Fred lied on the floor, with head covered in thick, almost clotted blood. He heard his breath brushed against his unshaved stubble, so serene that that was the only sound he could hear at that time, and grateful that at least he could hear the sound created by the air circulation in his body, lest this very day was the last day of his life.
And he remembered, along the line of script in the movies, and the words from the novel he read, that your whole life would flash back in front of your eyes, like a projector, putting good memories for you to cherish, to have the good thoughts before rest in peace (if God permits) for the rest of your afterlife.
And Fred was still waiting for that moment to come.
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