I wish I hadn't gone up those stairs

I wish I hadn't gone up those stairs. I should've stayed at the bottom and let some other poor bastard make the discovery. But how could I ignore that godawful noise? That low, dull wailing, fitfully punctuated with high-pitched screams of grief. I couldn't bear it, and so I climbed the stairs. The pictures on the wall told nothing out of the ordinary: your average domestic happily married bliss. But of course, these had all been taken years ago, back before Andrew had to go away. In the later pictures you could already see the dark and troubled expressions clouding his face. And then, after a point, there were no pictures. The most recent photo was dated nearly 3 years ago. Its frame was smashed and judging from the dent in the wall, it looked like somebody had thrown it with tremendous anger. It was the most recent picture of them. The last one taken before Andrew was taken to the hospital. As much as I tried to convince myself that this was just a normal domestic row, I knew in my heart that I... I wouldn't be ready for what lay behind that door. And then I saw him. Crouched over her body, blood everywhere. Up his arms. On the bed. Splattered across the wall and flecked across his face. Her limbs jutted out at broken angles, and her face... oh Christ, her face. If it hadn't been their house, I wouldn't have known it was her. And there he was, just bawling his eyes out, still clutching the bloodied bronze statue, his face beetroot-red with rage, grief and bloody frenzy. Trying his best to push her mangled face back into some semblance of order, trying to smooth out the creases in her dress with his fumbling fingers.

Jesus Christ, Andrew. Two days. That's all you'd been out for. Two fucking days.

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