You know when you have nothing to do, no lasting story ideas and no books you can actually be arsed to read, and no life to follow up at quarter past one in the morning? I'm like that now, and I suppose after watching some Horror Movies I'm developing the sick mind I normally have, so I wrote this.
There are three things about this story: 1. I have no idea how many words it is
2. It is actually not a story, just a random scene 3. It's just one page.
The happy couple lay next to each other; their stare not faltering at they gazed intently at their spouse’s old, fading eyes. They had passed their Golden Anniversary, and were leaving there 70’s.
“51 years…” Eileen said, smiling to her husband, whom she was never sick of seeing, “I will always love you, Peter.”
The old man looked back at his long-love, but his smile did not contain happiness.
“After all these years, we have pulled through,” the old man began, sighing out a croaky breath of air, “I wish I could say I have been honest with you about my past, my love.”
Eileen adopted an utterly confused look. She opened her mouth to question what her husband meant by what he said, but a sudden bang erupted from the front door of their apartment. Several more furious bangs followed suit. Peter looked worried.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll get it.” Peter slid carefully out of bed, cautious of his untrustworthy back whilst he shuffled to the door.
Eileen listened carefully (although her hearing wasn’t what it was fifty years earlier). She sat up with a frown on her face as she heard muffled yells. Moments later her husband was being dragged into the bedroom by the white wisps on his head that passes for hair. He had a pained look on his wrinkled, old face, and unnatural, tired groans of pain escaping his mouth as they dragged him.
Eileen’s hands shot to her face, as she let out a scream.
The man dragging Peter had a look of no emotion on his face. His friend followed behind him, with the same look.
“Please… please…” Peter cried, “leave my wife… just leave my wife…”
Both men exchanged glances before the one holding Peter replied.
“We are going to take your money.” Was all he said? He did not confirm the safety of Eileen, nor even mention it.
“What…. What is happening?!” Eileen begged, beneath her sobbing. She was curling out her bony arms and fingers towards her struggling love.
“It’s all right, my darling. We’ll be fine. Just give them what they want.” Peter’s reassuring words came at a price. Both thugs yet again exchanged glances.
“Just tell us where the money is. We want your passports, your identification, your money, and your jewellery.” The man holding Peter pulled a gun from his jacket, holding it against his head.
“It’s in a safe at the far wall. Behind the portrait. Combination is 51 76 74. Now please, let us go.” Peter’s hands were trembling, but they did naturally these days. He was looking at his wife, his lips trembling. He mouthed the words I love you, praying it wouldn’t be the last time he told her.
The other thug moved over to the portrait of Van Gough’s sunflower hanging on the wall beside the bed. He lifted it off it’s hanger, throwing it to the floor. Inside the wall where the portrait once hung was an old, dull-brown safe. It had a dial of numbers so it could be opened. The thug used the combination on the safe, before a an audible click rang out. The door opened easily, revealing small riches.
Still, the thug’s expression never changed.
“Now… let us go…” Peter demanded lightly, still obviously scared. The thug holding his hair pulled his head higher into the air. Peter let out a groan.
Swiftly and without doubt, the thug placed the barrel of the revolver to the old man’s head and pulled the trigger. A fire rang out around the room, as did the scream of Eileen as the body of her husband, her long-time love, went limp and slumped to the floor.
“NO!” screamed the old woman, sobbing for the life of her recently lost husband. The husband she had loved for many years. The husband she had felt warm next to her in her youth, and had decided to marry for her dying years. She had always dreamt of her and her husbands death as a peaceful one, in each other’s arms, not a heartless massacre. “Peter, no!”
As she sobbed, the thug turned the gun on her, and pulled the trigger. That sickening sound of the bullet entering her body, like taking the plug from the drain.
