Una vacanza perfetta by Laure Van Rensburg

The snow out front is peppered with a trail of blood at the end of it a gloved hand excavates a knife from its icy tomb. No more overbearing clouds stretching over blue has reclaimed the sky, where seagulls scream at the intruders disturbing the peace and quiet of the coast. Sunlight stains the horizon with pale yellow and orange, leading the way for a new day. Outside, the sharp bite of cold air stings. Leaving the mayhem behind, Deputy Wilcox shuffles toward the gaping mouth of the front door. In the living room a wheelchair lies on its side like some wounded animal, while the charred remains of a bag smolder in the fireplace. Blood streaks the door frames and walls the kitchen counter is smeared with it-riddles staining plaster and wood, written in cast-offs and spatters left to be deciphered. The stench of death and body fluids seeping out. An explosion of camera flashes the static fuzz from police radios the smack of latex gloves a persistent smell which gets worse down here and forces Deputy Wilcox to breathe through his mouth. On the first floor, there are more officers dotted around, more eyes asking questions, more chaos. One of them holds the broken pieces of a mug. Once sealed, the bag joins others, mostly pregnant with what looks like shredded clothing. One of Wilcox’s colleagues collects it, dropping it inside a little plastic bag where the romantic token becomes another clue to the gruesome events that have unfolded here. A present to a girl who no longer exists. On the third step lies a discarded heart on a broken chain. All around, the house unfolds like a scene in a pulp novel. They follow him as he heads back downstairs. He closes his eyes, but the images cling to him, trapped behind his lids. What’s happened here stains the carpet and the walls with red and reeks. But this? This is what animals do to each other-and in the bowels of the forest, not in some fancy house. A car wreck, maybe, the odd wood-chopping accident. Palming his chin, he takes in a scene rarely witnessed in those quiet parts of the county. Yellow teeth in need of cleaning peek from under his chapped lips. He smells of coffee, the foam of it hemming the bristles of his mustache. His eyes are full of questions as he tries to take in what happened here. A shiny badge reads “Deputy Wilcox”-black letters etched on brass, the O almost scratched into another C.

They belong to a police officer with a Burt Reynolds mustache.

Gradually, a few words rise through the pandemonium of noises- victim, unresponsive, Jesus Christ. It spreads with voices, which shatter the silence further. Through the open front door cold sneaks in and rushes up the stairs. It begins with the silent heartbeat of blue lights pulsing through the windows, before the outside world invades the space with thuds and footsteps.

Una vacanza perfetta by Laure Van Rensburg