Apartment 213 (words 546)

 

The police van screeched to a halt in front of the old apartment complex, its red-and-blue lights reflecting in the puddles on the cracked pavement. Two officers, guns drawn, charged up the stairwell to the second floor, stopping outside apartment 213.

They rang the bell. No answer.

“Try it,” one officer said.

The door creaked open with ease.

Inside, the television blared late-night commercials. The room stank of blood and cheap air freshener. A young woman, about 25, lay sprawled on the sofa, her nightgown soaked in red, her lifeless eyes wide open in horror. Deep stab wounds puckered her torso, blood splattered across the walls.

Standing beside her was a large man in his mid-forties. Faded jeans with a sweat-stained T-shirt. His hair was wild, and his hands trembled slightly, coated with drying blood.

One officer approached cautiously, checked the woman’s pulse, then shone a flashlight into her eyes. He didn’t need to speak, but murmured anyway:

“Dead.”

The second officer turned to the man. “Are you the one who called us in?”

The man nodded slowly. “You want to know who killed her?” His voice was cold, detached. “Here. Evidence.”

Before either officer could stop him, he snatched a bloody kitchen knife from the sofa and stabbed the woman’s body again and again, grunting with every plunge.

“Drop the knife! Now!” barked the officer, raising his weapon.

The man paused, then let the knife clatter to the floor. He raised his hands, smirking.

As one officer handcuffed him, the other asked, “Why’d you, do it?”

“Bedroom,” the man said. “Go see for yourself.”

In the dimly lit bedroom, the second officer found another body, this one male, late twenties, clad in pyjama. A silk tie was wrapped tightly around his neck. His skull caved in, possibly from the ornate brass lamp now lying askew on the floor.

“Who’s this?” the officer called out.

“Hell, if I know,” the cuffed man replied from the living room. “First time I’ve laid eyes on him.”

“The woman. Is she your wife?”

“What do you think? My mistress? Of course, she’s my wife,” the man spat.

The officer stared at him. “So… why kill them?”

The man laughed, short and manic. “For fun. What kind of stupid question is that?”

A ringtone pierced the silence. The second officer retrieved a mobile phone from the dead man’s pyjama pocket. The screen showed a missed call to 100, placed just minutes earlier. He exchanged a confused glance with his partner.

They called in security from the building gate.

“That man,” the guard said, nodding at the cuffed intruder, “Never seen him before. The other two? They’ve lived here for years. Married. Quiet. Kept to themselves.”

The officers looked at one another, piecing it together.

Just as one opened his mouth to speak, “Cut!” shouted a voice off-camera. “Pack up for the day.” The director seemed happy with the day’s outcome.

Immediately, the tension broke, bringing much relief. Technicians emerged from the shadows. The ‘dead’ actors sat up, yawning. The blood was wiped off with towels. The killer stretched and took a sip from a whisky bottle.

Though the gory illusion was shattered, the air was still thick for a few moments, with morbid cruelty before loud laughter and banter followed.