Prequel

A man sits in the bare room with faded yellow walls. He stares into his flimsy plastic cup of instant coffee that sends lazy swirls of steam into the air. The rain beats at the window in the dark night, and the man sighs. So soon, it seemed, is what’s required. At least he could celebrate in style. His smile curves upwards into a reckless smirk as his phone lights up on the desk beside the foul drink. He puts on his coat, buttoning it to his throat, and a hat. He doesn’t bother to lock the door as he strides out into the wild night.
The building fits in exactly with the others in the street; terraced on a long row of old fashioned houses with exposed brickwork and beams. The night rages with a howling gale, like a train thundering on its tracks. The high walls of the street form a damp, narrow corridor that stinks of piss. The rain drums a steady rhythm into the old fashioned cobbled street, forming dirty puddles, soaking the street through. The rows of houses are bathed in shadow, the only light in the downpour pooling underneath the cracked plastic of the florescent street light that flickers eerily. The man appears, sticking to the shadows and avoiding the worst of the weather. His short stature allows him to slink under the cover of the unoccupied buildings. A softer light flicks on at the last house on the street. The man pulls back into a miniscule gap between one house and the next as a barely audible short scream pierces the storm. The man smirks again.
Good.
That’s the cue, that’s the signal. The man clambers up the steep wall and shatters the glass in an upstairs window. The streetlamp illuminates the sharp edges as he squeezes his way inside the quaint room. The wooden beams are exposed and stark against the white sagging wallpaper. The bed looks big enough for three and the pure bedding is disturbed by rose petals. The man waits in the corner until the harmonious giggles fills the stale air in the room. A man in a second hand suit carrying a girl in a shabby dress walks in. His appearance is scruffy, and her makeup is a little overdone, her sausage curls thrown out behind her. They have one last second to look at each other with loving eyes until they see a dark flicker in the corner, armed with a short blade. The cruel silver smile is soon rewarded with rubies that stains the white silk red, the blood a sticky pool that runs in the bare floorboards. The man hates the screamers, but he cannot control his insane laughter as he sees them twitch and die. He laughs. The insane cackle pierces the night and even as blue and white light pulses across the street, even as a police officer pulls him away into a car, uncontrollable psychotic laughter brings tears to the man’s eyes.

Notes

I hope you enjoyed this, and please sit tight whilst I continue Frank's story.
Much love,
Em xo