Jane Jago’s Drabbles – Three Hundred and Seventy-Eight

His weight on her was such that she could barely breathe. She moved a little restlessly, feeling wetness spreading across her back. Oh well, she thought, at least he’d had fun then – but she wished he’d shift his backside. 

He didn’t, so she made a determined effort to extract herself from the stifling prison of his sheer bulk. Finally free, she scrabbled for the lamp. Turning up the wick she saw a sea of colour. The wetness that soaked the bed was bright scarlet and had seeped from around the axe buried between his shoulder blades.

She started to scream…

©jane jago

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