The Death of Angela

THE DEATH OF ANGELA

When the day of the electrical storm hit the small town of Buford, Vince D. Gregors was driving home from his office. He ended up in the driveway just in time to see that the weather had worsened into what almost seemed to him like a hurricane. The raindrops were like pellets shooting from the sky and hitting the roof of his house like a baseball bat.
Lightning flared across the sky and in the quiet distance the thunder reverberated as clouds darkened above.
Vince got out of his car with his briefcase over his head bitching the entire time quickly fuddling to get his keys out and unlock the door. Once he did, he twisted the deadbolt and immediately entered into safer territory of his hallway.
He shut the door hoping to god the weather would soon clear up; His mind already on warming up to something hot and cozy.
Brandy or Malt Liquor Scotch would hit it just right he thought and indeed it would be a fine precursor to this daunting evening.
He flicked the light switch to his right but realized the power must have gone down as the storm came in. Fucking great, he snapped to himself, as he moved slowly into the domains of his house throwing his keys on the floor missing the couch table. Vince put his briefcase on the dining room table as he entered the kitchen. He went directly to the sink where a towel laid. He dried himself off and then began to undo his wet trench coat which he laid on the kitchen stool by the island countertop. He carefully moved toward the living room where the wet bar could be found – tonight, he decided, was going to be a Vince-Champ night and indeed he was going to get a good dose of “why the fuck should I care night.” and leave it at that.
He groped for his usual scotch and though it was dark as hell he had that intuitive sense for that one and only brand he could tell by the feel and shape of the bottle.

He opened the bottle and took a quick swig savoring that first pleasurable moment of subtle libation. He grabbed a glass and began to pour taking his first round for the evening. And then another just for good measure that would set the evening right.
Suddenly, the lights in the house flickered for the first time since his arrival and jaunted back to life. And now Vince could finally see his familiar surroundings that he was used to.
Music of Jim Croce played in the background and it somewhat startled Vince for a second.
Easy listening music for the easy minded he considered as he took another swig of his scotch.
He shouted out to Angela upstairs but she did not respond. It was a normal thing that seemed to be getting even more normal than usual these days.
I’m home! Does anybody fucking care!!

He proceeded to walk up the stairs.
Angela’s bedroom lit by soft candles melted halfway down.
She had her records on. The scratching of the needle on the phonograph surely gave that away as he approached it to shut it off.
Nancy Sinatra?
Vince surveyed the room wondering where Angela had gone and quite dumbfounded at this point.
Was the power out before the storm?
The bathroom lights were on as well. The toilet seat had candle wax all over it – and scented too; green passion springs. Cute he thought as he looked at the disarray of the bathroom. Makeup was all over the floor and on the sink; mascara, beauty foundation, red cherry lip gloss manufactured by Revlon or the devil himself.
He started to turn out of the bathroom when something caught his eye in the corner – the wastebasket.
He moved closer, fumbled with his already done scotch glass which he tried to lay on the sink with Angela’s other smutty crap. The glass fell crashing to the floor but Vince was not concerned at that apparent moment as he reached into the basket and pulled out something that would make him adamant in his convictions.
Not one…but two used, filthy wet condoms! It’s for her pleasure; Two dicks for the price of one!
He went back downstairs furtively almost in a trance wondering what the situation was here.
Drinks are on me, he snickered ,almost wondering who was talking for him at that moment as he grabbed his scotch and began to drink large swigs from the bottle.

The weather continued in its hard drizzles and cacophonies of thunderous booms outside. Vince started to unbutton his collar and let loose his tie but did not take it off; but just sort of letting it dangle like a noose.
Vince walked toward the kitchen and exited the backdoor to his backyard with his great big oak tree, lush green lawn, and large azalea bushes that kept the confines of property from the neighbors somewhat private. He stood in the rain for a second listening to the thunderous howls before advancing to the tool shed. He opened it up for the first time in five years. Most times he had help that would come by and do most of that menial work that he forbade himself the privilege of doing.
It was dark inside.
He flicked the overhead light and took a mental note of his inventory, also at the same time wondering what he was actually doing right now. This situation; this circumstance; about that mean evil little bitch of a wife he married happily seven years ago!He did not know where Angela had gone, but he sensed she had not gone far. He could only imagine she was hiding somewhere; sensing any moment she would be caught by her beloved husband.
He tried to remember what had happened today. The phone call at the office with Dr. Marlin who said he needed to urgently speak with him about Angela. The mere thought of Angela angered Vince all the same. He was not happy anymore. Nothing he did mattered anymore, not to Angela, and certainly not for him.
He saw the garden shears in the corner of the shed. He instinctively grabbed them and walked back out of the shed leaving the door wide open.
He started toward the Azalea bushes and began fiercly cutting away cursing under his breath. The wind howled behind him like some banshee but he did not care at that moment, all the time cutting and cutting, trimming away the pain, the feeling of despair in his body, the days and nights he could never sleep, where Angela would ignore his needs.

The rain started coming again in small drizzles.
The cutting of the bushes soothed Vince; the steel grinding softly in unison like two lovers and ending in clear rapid snips of the blade as it easily cut through the hedges; cutting the beauty away and leaving nothing but scars of remnants that once were.
Vince looked up into the sky and saw the dark brooding clouds hovering over him like a wraith ready to charge. Soft white streaks crossed the sky; the rain tickled his forehead; the sound of rain against rooftops and on green grass put Vince in a zen state as he continued to ponder the dilemma and only asking why to himself in self obligation but not finding the answer quite so easy.
He looked up toward the house and the saw it had been in disarray for sometime; possibly a new paint job he thought would do the house good. He could not remember the last time the gardner was around. Maybe last week was Vince's first thought. He saw the gardners tools and wheel barrow still lying by the storm cellar door and has not been back since to reclaim his stuff.
He remembered Angela had a certain eye for the man in the uniform and would sit by the pool watching the gardner as he mowed the lawn. Sometimes taking off his shirt and coaxing a little remote foreplay. Angela had her ways in enticing men and her charm was just as sly as a fox; a vixen on the male establishement.
The rain started coming heavier.
It got colder.
Vince clutched the shears in his hands tightly, almost absent-mindedly.
He heard the banging of the shed door as the wind swept the rusty hinges back; the clanging made Vince lose thought as he turned to see the shed wide open, the lamp swaying back and forth; the doors clanging as the gust came and went.
He started toward the shed to the close the doors. As he neared the shed a laughter grew among the breeze; high-pitched in jubilation; more laughing, an excited tone that had Vince stop what he was doing to turn and see where the commotion was coming from.
The Attic light was on.
Lights loomed in the dark crevices at the top of the house under plain view where Vince stood watching. Shadows of figures creeped back and forth.
More than one.

Was it Angela?
Vince figured it had to be for no other reason than who else would be in the house besides him?
She was hiding from him.
The thought covered Vince in red. The air held still, almost, it seemed; like time was waiting on his every move and whim. The shed clanged; the steel vibrato like a drum beat.
Angela, he whispered.
The rain came pouring again. Hard and heavy this time. Misery soaked him. He entered the house with the shears he still had under arm.
Vince tore off his shirt letting it fall helplessly to the floor with a hard wet thud. His shoes treaded dirt as he crossed the kitchen; the pantry; the island where the pots and dutch oven pans quaintly hung on steel racks; the laughing was gregarious, infectious and bubbly all at the same time. Rats in the attic Vince said to himself.
"Angela!! I know your up there! Come down here!!"
Jim Croce played over and over the record player in the den,"Big Bad Leroy Brown"; the bottle was still there waiting for him. The lights started flickering intermittently. And the record slowed down a bit before starting over again skipping a beat here and there. Vince walked up the stairs to the next floor. The wooden floors creaking under his weight. The shears scratching the bannisters as Vince surveyed the surroundings all the while listening for the rats. He walked down the short length of the hallway passing the room that still had the smell of burnt candles, sex and champagne. The sound of glass crashed to the floor from in the attic. There was more laughter; more like giggling between two children that passed notes back and forth under their desks at school showing their teacher with a big fat head and a twig like body. The giggles were softer now this time. Vince shouted again wanting some damn response from his foul wife, but all the while, just eerie silence with the hint of jovial undertakings and whispers from afar.
Vince proceeded to the end of the hall. The door to the attic was slightly ajar. There was creaking from above; across the floorboards. The sound of music permeated throughout the house; the low staunchy noise of the phonograph going round and round; nothing but the sound of the needle scratching old vintage vinyl from Angela's room; and then Tom Jones from somewhere downstairs singing," Deliah".A transition from Croce to Jones; the greatest hits album he remembered before the storm came in.
Vince thought he heard moaning. Fevisherish kissing in the background wafting in the air.
Little bitch he thought. I''ll murder you.
He opened the door.
It creaked like everything else in the house. Vince pushed the door gently not to make too much noise. The air was warm, but pungent. An odor that was unfamiliar to him. The whispers came again. Shadows moved like undulating bodies.
Furtively Vince peeked his head into the crevice between the railing and the stairs trying to gather images shifting around on the floor. There was dust, but no feet drunkenly dancing across the floor.
Candles lit the gloom.
There were no more whispers. Only the eerie silence of the house warping in on itself as the wind pushed harder.
Angela sat in the corner.
Vince only stared. Watching. "Angela," he whispered, "What are you doing here?"
All was silent. No rats. No nothing. Angela slept in her chair.
Vince was only imagining things, and felt mortified for humiliating himself in front of Angela this way. It was the wind making all that noise, he told himself; and the crashing of glass was nothing more than the tree scratching at the window pane; the moans, the whispers, everything like one orchestrated illusion to ripen his dear old senses.
Angela was just sleeping. And only that.

The doorbell rang.
Vince was startled for a moment, thinking it was again just tricks of the wind. So he waited, listening tentatively.
Again the chimes came.
Vince thought he heard Angela moan as she moved in her chair and he quickly began to descend the stairs and find out who was at his door. He dropped the shears on the steps. They made a hard clunk before sliding down the steps to the bottom of the foil meeting carpeted wood.
He silently closed the door to the attic. Angela moaned again.
The doorbell rang for a third and then fourth time. Someone started banging.
"Vince! Vince, are you there?! It's me, Marlin!"
Vince heard the name. It was Dr. Marlin. What was he doing here? He did not want to answer. Marlin continued to knock, peering into the window. Vince would not answer the door; instead, he thought to himself, he would just keep quiet, for now.
Just go away, go away he kept thinking. He cuffed his ears drowning out the sound.
The power went out again. And once again Vince was enveloped in darkness.

* * *

The door opened. Marlin shouted through the entrance waiting for a response.
Nothing but pure silence. Marlin entered quietly closing the door behind him. " Vince. I know your here. I saw the car outside. Why won't you answer me?"
Lights flickered then dimmed. The storm was raging. And it seemed the whole neighborhood was experiencing the same problem. Marlin wiped his forehead and began to proceed through the house cautiously, all the while, still calling out to Vince who was somewhere in the house.
Thunder crackled. There was a door slamming at the the back entrance somewhere and Marlin followed the noise.
The floor was dirty and wet with footprints.
Marlin closed and latched the door. He surreptiously eyed the kitchen looking for anything out of place. He was hoping Vince was okay. No Angela anywhere in sight as well.
He was surprised by the call earlier today he received from Angela at his office. She was upset over the phone and continually said there was something wrong with Vince. And that he needed his help. He said he would stop by. Angela said she would wait; now, though, it felt like there was nobody home. And that made him start to feel a little concerned.
A shadow wisped by him.
Marlin turned, to see Vince by the entrance to kitchen, opposite the pantry; Vince was barechested; He was frowning in the dark. His eyes looking into Marlin; investigating his motivations as to why he was here, and trespassing at the same time.
Marlin tried to smile. And just feign that curiousity got the best of him, and could not help but be a concerned friend. "Hey, why didn't you answer? Didn't you hear me bang on the door there?"
"Why are you here Marlin?" Vince said reluctantly. The words stressed for emphasis to make Marlin know that he was not welcomed. "My wife and I are having some serious discussions right now."Vince paused. Then added, "did she call you too?"
"Yeah. How did you know?"
"She does that all the time Marlin. She is a hoot -- a practical joker." Vince laughed a bit, trying to hold in the sarcasm. Marlin didn't seem to get it and gave an inquisitive look. He didn't get it.
"Where is Angela?"
"Why?"
"Is she okay?"
"Of course. What did she tell you Marlin? Ask you over for a cocktail or something."
Marlin crouched back a little not sure where the conversation was going, but he didn't like the insinuations. There was something wrong here. Vince grimaced at him. He acted much like the outrageous jealous type who couldn't get a hold on reality.
"I think it's best, if you let me see Angela real quick and then I will be on my way."
Vince pulled out his whisky canteen and took a large gulp, savoring the burning sensation, then the spark of warmth as it hit his stomach. He smiled.
"Sure. Let me get her for you." Vince closed the space between him and Marlin and closely looked him in the eye. "You wait, right here."
Vince lurched back into the flickering dark. The surges were strong tonight. It seemed like every ten minutes the lights would turn back on, and as suddenly as it had came, would go right back out.
Marlin waited as he kind of fumbled around in the dark. He went to the sink and got a glass of water. He didnt think anyone would mind. He was a little nerve-racked by Vince; being the strange bed-fellow that he was and never thought Vince could act in such a neurotic sort of way. It put Marlin on edge. With the storm outside it seemed that much more ominous in such crazy discussions.
Marlin walked around the house kind of feeling his way around.
The cell phone rang.
Marlin reached into his vest coat and pulled out the phone to answer as he continued to walk around in the dark trying not to fall down flat on his ass. He looked at the screen but did not recognize the number.
"Hello?"
There was gurgling in the background. Static. It was a woman's voice he thought he could hear.
"I'm in the basement. Please help. He's trying to kill me!"
"Angela?"
There was more static. Then the cell went dead.
Where is the basement he thought to himself. Not sure of what to do at this point. Call the cops would be the best thing to do, but he did not know how long it would take for them to respond on the scene since the storm was raging outside. He might not even be able to get a hold of him; even if he did, Angela would be hurt or something worse.
He could hear water pipes running from in the walls. They seemed to be coming from upstairs. The smell of faint roses in the air. Whistling or something. Marlin walked to the backend of the south hallway. There was a little laundry niche there; a large basin, with a washer and dryer; the smell of faint bleach and iodine; Marlin opened the door; it did lead down to somewhere. He pulled out his lighter to see where the steps descended to; he was pretty sure this was the basement, but there was no sound or noise; no muffled voice he could decipher in the dark; no sound of movement or scratching; no sound of desperation below. Only the smell of damp wetness on concrete cinder blocks. He called out into the basement, "Angela, are you there"?
There was shuffling. Like plastic. Then small squeals.
Dozens of them it sounded like.
Marlin looked behind him to see there was still no Vince in sight.
He took a deep breath and started heading down the stairs, testing the steadfast of the surface as he descended the steps.
The flame went out.
Marlin cursed to himself. Put on his glove. Flicked his lighter again hoping not to burn himself with what little
little light he had left.
The basement was freezing.
Marlin could barely make out the images in front of him as he neared the bottom of the stairs. There was some paint cans stacked together on top of what used to be a sink -- there was a vinyl tarp covering a shelf with some old christmas ornaments in brown paper bags. There were hand tools -- what looked like they were hanging on the wall with nails hammered in to hold them in place. Boxes were stacked in the corner; mostly wet and ready to come apart due to all the water coming in from the storm cellar that was straight ahead. Marlin could hear the soft pounding of those cellar doors as the wind outside tried to rip away at it, as if there was an elemental fist grabbing the handles and pulling to get in; the only thing holding them, were the chains on it.
There was more shuffling. Like paper moving across the ground. The soft squelching told Marlin, there was nothing living down here; only things non-human, that paraded in the dark with red-beady eyes in search for the smallest morsels of scraps. As Marlin walked, he could hear the soft crunching under his feet; a few at first then more as he pursued noises in the dark.
As he walked further into the recesses of basement, he could feel heat coming from somewhere; heat like an incinerator.
Around the bend, the darkness blended into things real and imagined. A strong odor struck Marlin in the nostrils. His impulse to gag came suddenly. The smell was sour and acrid. He held his hand to his mouth. He knelt down to the floor to get a closer look and could see crimson ooze with white speckles; only the white speckles were not speckles of paint or even dust.
There were maggots. Millions of them all over the surface.
The lighter burnt out again.
Marlin wanted to run but was lost as to how. He continued forward and within a few paces tripped over something soft and squishy. He felt his knee go down hitting something that easily cracked under his weight. He felt cold wet slop. And he could feel it going through his pants, soaking his fabric with the vile fluid. Feeling what he tripped over for the first time made Marlin go cold all over.
He felt the remnants of a nose. A caved in chest. Parts of the arms where they should of been.
And he could almost feel the hand he was touching holding him down in a death grip as it caressed his exposed skin.
Oh, God, Jesus Fucking H. Christ.
The rats were there. Gnawing away at the eye sockets. Eating at tender sinew and cartilage.
He didnt't need to see that to know. He sensed it like any frightened child that screamed at the top of their lungs at the movie theatre, watching some madman jump out at you and then slit your throat for good measure.
Marlin screamed.
Instinctively, Marlin pulled himself up. Puked on himself with no time to clean it off.
The lights were flickering again in the house. And from what Marlin could tell, there were several bodies as he charged for the cellar door. Some were covered in plastic. Others were seated like mannequins on bench tables. One was seated in a chair in the niche of the corner; sweetly dressed with a blue bonnet dress with a pink bodice. The face was covered in makeup like an overgrown, grotesque doll with a blonde wig. Maggots squirmed over the body eating slowly away at the carcass. The rats had already made their home inside the carcasses, what-used-to-be, it's stomach.
They squealed joyfully in their new home.

Marlin tried to tackle the cellar door open, but it would not budge against his weight. He whimpered and started to feel himself cave in.
The door to the basement slammed shut. And he could hear a high pitched laugh. A female he heard.
He pummelled in the dark running for the stairs, and then to the door. Fortunately, it was not locked, but Marlin felt no relief as he was back in the kitchen; he smelled perfume in the air, light and sweet; almost aromatic and sickening at the same time. Marlin wanted to throw up again, but resisted the urge.
In the corner of his eye he could see someone turn the corner; a slight giggle--as they did.
"You sick fuck!!" Marlin yelled.
He turned the corner to the kitchen and rushed for the back door.
The door was locked. He used his arm and smashed through the glass. As Marlin tried to reach for the outside door knob shards of glass ripped through his hand. Blood dribbled on the white tilled floor. He pulled back and ran for the front door in the living room murmuring in grief.
"Vince, what have you done, dear God!" Marlin wailed. He tripped again stumbling on the rug. The storm was electric. Winds cried in unison as it came through the cracks of broken glass warning Marlin to flee for his life.
The sound of footsteps quickly came. Soft. Barefooted, but lightning fast.
The power kept going in and out.
Marlin looked up and saw something running from out of the shadows. Long hair, red lipstick, sharp fingernails in a white lingerie dress with slit stockings up to the waist. Angela he thought, but there was something strange, because the form was too burly and way too masculine.
"Vince?" Marlin whispered but he was not heard.
"Did you miss me Marlin baby?" The knife came down hard. Marlin yelped in discontent as his final fate would be slowly drawn out by pain and devastation. The blade hit bone; tearing open flesh. Vince began to gut Marlin like a pig, making "oinking" noises as he did. Blood gushed. Marlin could not struggle or scream. His demise was imminent. Vince got wet with excitement as he delighted in the fresh kill.
Marlin tried to creep to the door but just crawled on the ground reaching in the darkness.
Vince continued to viciously stab at Marlin; the pretty dress he wore turning red from splatter like a tye-dye job on a white t-shirt. Vince straddled Marlin from the back and then finally slashed his throat, holding Marlin's head high, looking into the eyes as they slowly dimmed out into nothingness.
Vince watched the blood as it stained the carpet. And figured he was going to have to clean up the mess. He dragged the body toward the basement and then threw the body down the steps watching it fall like an oversized potato sack.
Bone cracked on the way down. Vince smiled at the thought. Happy landings.
Vince picked up the cell from the floor and dialed Marlin's office and left a message on his secretary's answering machine. Disguising his voice as a woman, he simply stated Marlin would be driving to Mr. Olgethorpe's house and doing some research there for the next day or two. He then dialed the wife's number and then did the same --at least that way, he could cover his tracks for right now until he could get rid of the dodge outside somehow. He would drive it into the river somewhere nearby once he had the chance.

* * *

Vince rubbed himself gently underneath his stockings feeling the coolness against his skin. He threw the knife in the sink and then managed to correct himself, ladylike; his hair was a beautiful mess and needed combing. Vince put on his high heels and moaned at himself in ecstasy as he eyed himself in the mirror -- but it was not Vince he was first noticing, it was Angela who sat there and watched him and smiled from behind - that little quirky conniving smile she had; that little slut. She rolled her head back and laughed.
"Don't laugh at me bitch!" Vince turned, but there was no one behind him. He looked again in the mirror and saw that Angela suddenly vanished; the echoes reverberating her rapture; "dirty", she said.
"Fuck you."
He applied the lipstick to his mouth and puckered. He touched himself and felt erotically sexy. He was a bad, bad girl. He couldn't help himself. And he liked it very much knowing that deep insatiable craving was burning inside him. He wanted more. He wanted Angela again, as though, as much as he hated to admit, but she only understood the true meaning of perfection; desires and tribulations that only a mother could finess.
The night stirred and prowled within him. And he alone only knew what that could mean
Thunder lighted the sky brilliantly. No sound of flight through the air -- just the silent chill that swept through the house. There was electric in the air; and the cold whispers of the rain.
The cell phone rang.
The message display said: PRIVATE
Vince looked at the phone as if some form of new life just entered into his room. The phone kept ringing. Vince waited.
Ten seconds passed.
The phone kept ringing and would not stop.
Vince was getting perturbed and was under no obligation to answer - but, it was like, the unknown was reaching out to him and wanting to touch him - yes, touch him.
The dead like to touch.
Dirty. Dirty boy.
Vince finally reached out and grabbed the phone and answered without saying anything, but just listened.
There was slow moaning on the other end. Or growling. No - it sounded more like gurgling.
And it was so close. So close. Vince could touch it.
Snip! Snip! and the low gurgling came in like a sudden creep.
Snip! Snip! (Blood drips...)

The lights went out. This time for good.
The music started churning. Slowly and languidly like a guest in a ballroom dance doing the waltz.
It didn't sound right. It was like the music was going much slower than normal. Dragging.
The attic door creaked open.
The house grew death in a moments notice. And the house was still. Not even the slightest noise from outside where the rain and winds bellowed in galloping sonatas from before. This time it was different. A silent lurking in the passages just waiting.
Snip! Snip (Blood drips...blood drips...,)
The sound of two lovers in complete harmony; gnashing and rising in stainless steel.
The exquisite grinding of flesh tearing and bone crunching through the precise cutting that only could come from love and bitter remorse.
Furtive soft steps moved across the floor in the attic peeway. Vince picked up his knife and reached out into the dimness of the house. Although the power was now totally out, the music played on in that slow miserly groaning. Things started moving throughout the house. They were in the walls too. The scratching. The buried voices from deep down. Vince could hear them now. Slowly. They moved upward. They all wanted to touch him, and yes, oh, yes love him too.
"I can hear you Angela."
"Yes you can. So can they...," she whispered. The voice gurgling and cracking in the silence.
Vince walked out of the room heading toward the attic once again.
In the darkness at the end of the hallway Angela appeared in all her glory creeping through the door from the attic. She was well rested. The heavy thud of her walk.
The flesh was peeled back ever so gently from her face. Her eyes long gone from putrefication and age. The mandible of her jaw was cracked. Her ribcage protruding. The skeletals of her once youthful body showing every hidden detail that now only the parasites and maggots could engage in. The last bits of tethered flesh and sinew hung on to her carcass as if it was somehow willed; to deny the presence of untimely decay.
She smelled like moths and rot. The rats giggled inside her as they peered out of her eyesocket. Her jaw opened wider and Vince swore he could see tiny eyes peering out, almost real human eyes; the same color that Angela once had. She gurgled as her jaw cracked again. She was laughing at him.
"There coming for you."
The shears came out glinting against the moonbeams. How beautiful they looked together.
Snip! Snip! (Dirty.....dirty...)
She screamed. And maggots blasted out everywhere hitting the walls and the floors. With what last will she could manage her body flew at him; running at him with the shears above her head.
Vince panicked and threw the knife but only turned to run. The music got louder. And in turn, voices
looming in the dark, in the basement, in the walls; yellow chesire eyes ablaze; cracking and chaotic moans. They slowly moved from the basement. To the stairs. On the steps. Angela awoke them. And she cackled and growled.
"There hungry."
Snip! Snip!
Vince tried to run. All he could do was fall and flee. They were coming. The shears grabbed his rump like a meat hook and quickly sliced leaving Vince to howl in agonizing pain; The blood gushing in soft spurts and running down the length of his leg. It was warm and wet. The shears came again and pierced him. This time in the small of his back.
[Snip, snip]
They came faster. Angela's body hovering behind him. Ripping at him. Biting at him. He managed to turn the corner but fell down the stairs losing himself as he did and feeling the wet crack of his shoulder as he hit bottom. Vince giggled at himself thinking how he felt like a little pig in the slaughter house coasting around in his own blood. Angela stood at the top of the stairs; enjoying this moment. They were closing in and Vince could feel acid in the back of his throat. He could hardly speak. The bile oozing within him. The crimson river before him like some abstract expression on a dark canvas. The eyes were all on him. All there just for him...and all Vince could think of as they closed in on him with those prowling claws before he lost it.
Yes. He knew. [Snip!]

It was the last supper.