The White Angel Murder

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The coppery stink of blood hung in the air like a strong perfume.

Jonathan Stanton felt the coolness of the linoleum in the kitchen against his back as his nostrils filled with the scent. His vision was blurry and only faint echoes rang in his ears but he knew there was no one near. He felt the calmness of the house now; the quiet. The gun was heavy against his hand but he didn’t feel he had the strength to lift it.

He glanced down and saw the dark black blood pouring out of him and onto the floor, spreading into a wide circle around him. He felt the dampness of his shirt as it clung to his ribs and the trickle of urine down his thighs as he lost control of his bladder. His vision was clouded past a couple of feet and he didn’t know what, or who, was there, but there was no movement. His head collapsed back and his eyes began to close.

Stay alive. Stay alive. Sleep is death.

But all he wanted to do was sleep. It would be a simple thing to do; like falling onto silken sheets and wrapping them around himself. The softness would kiss his skin and then, there would nothing. It would be so easy to do.

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