This is something I wrote yesterday for the prompt Murder and something that needs work. But it’s a start, I was trying, if nothing else, to get some of the violence from Mondays nightmare out of my head.
Tony Daniel was a good guy, decent. Called his mum, treated his girlfriend right, kept out of trouble. Black hair and his mothers blue eyes, he worked out, and worked in, a gym, seven days a week. He lived at the gym almost, either behind the desk signing people in or in the weights room, bench pressing a few.
It was just bad luck that he was home tonight. Not at the gym. Not at his girlfriends.
Just bad luck that a pair of hands were wrapped around his throat, squeezing the very soul from him. In the dark of his bedroom he was slammed against his wall, knocking a framed picture of himself and his girlfriend to the floor. He didn’t hear the sound of glass smashing over his own frantic efforts to breathe that filled the entire flat. He clawed at the hands around his neck, the smell of soap and sweat drifting up to his senses and he tried to dig what nails he hadn’t bitten down to the quick into the skin, but there was no reaction. His left shoulder was pressed into the cold white plaster board wall, the room shadowed and his attacker behind him. over him. It was tall man that took Tony’s life that night.
It had come out of no where, he had come out of no where. Tony had switched off the kitchen light and padded back into his dark bedroom, just the light of the lampposts filtering thought his thin curtains creating shadows of furniture, wearing just boxers and carrying a glass of water when he had been struck.
The next morning he’d be found like that, tanned body pale with death, Calvin Kleins, surrounded by glass from the broken picture and broken tumbler.
That wasn’t his worry, his concern. The only thing that went though his mind was the feel of hands so tight around hi throat, without a millimetre or a moment of reprieve. Fat fingers pressed into the flesh and would leave impressions for the police to find the next morning, for his girlfriend to find. He felt sick with the pressure, dizzy from the lack of oxygen. As he fought against strong arms and a heavy hand, his feet found the broken glass, cutting lines into the soles of his feet. Pain cascaded up through his body .
He was loosing consciousness and loosing the fight. He was strong man, he used that gym every day for six years, he’d worked there for three years, but his attacker was stronger. He could feel his body against his when he was pulled back, the grip around his neck never once slipping. His attacker was bigger then his, his chest and shoulders broader from what Tony could felt. He was completely surrounded.
He wasn’t sure and he had to hold on to the idea that someone of considerable size was killing him, strangulating him, because he used to consider himself invincible. Some called him cocky, he called it confidence in his own physical strength. He could bench press his girlfriend, why would he be afraid of anyone hurting him?
He was afraid now. his room was getting darker, the dark mass of a man behind was building up to one last move. One last squeeze of one last snap. He could feel the tension in the arms, thr pressure building up in the stubby appendages around his neck.
The end was coming.
He wanted to cry but he couldn’t even choke. his face was red, his cheek and chin bulbous, eyes wide and forced out from the sockets. This was it, this was it, this was it. Goodbye Sarah, no more weights, no more breath.
He stopped fighting moments before he lost consciousness, wondering why he was this mans last victim, why he’d been killed. Why was it his time to die?
He would never find and went limp in his attackers grasp. finally the grip around his neck loosened but it was too late, his body was dropped to the floor, hitting the glass with a soft thud that vibrated through the floor boards.
Just another victim of populations control the note left by his body read. The summer of serial killers continued around the M25 for everyone but Tony and his family.