Chapter 4 - The Bloody Homecoming
Sunday evening arrived with a picturesque, golden sunset over our affluent suburban neighborhood.
Mark’s sleek Porsche pulled into the driveway, the engine purring before being cut off. He stepped out of the car, stretching his arms above his head, still riding the high of a weekend filled with luxury, alcohol, and male ego.
He grabbed his bag and whistled a tune as he unlocked the front door.
He didn't notice the missing glass pane right away. He was too busy scrolling through his phone, checking the likes on his latest post.
“Maya! I’m home!” he called out into the quiet foyer.
Silence answered him.
He frowned, annoyed. He expected me to be waiting by the door, probably sulking, ready to apologize for being so 'dramatic' when he left. He expected the smell of dinner, or at least the sound of the baby monitor.
“Maya, don't play games. I’m exhausted and I don't want to deal with your attitude,” he shouted, dropping his bag on the entryway table.
As he walked further into the house, the silence began to feel oppressive. The air was stale. The house was too cold.
He walked into the kitchen. Empty. No bottles in the sink. No formula on the counter.
Annoyance finally began to give way to a slight prickle of unease. He walked up the sweeping mahogany staircase.
“Maya? Are you sleeping?”
He pushed open the door to the master bedroom. The bed was perfectly made, untouched.
Then, he turned toward the nursery. The door was wide open.
Mark stepped into the doorway, ready to deliver a sharp reprimand. But the words died instantly on his lips, replaced by a sudden, violent gag reflex.
The smell hit him first—a thick, metallic odor of dried copper and decay that made his stomach heave.
Then, his eyes adjusted to the dim light.
The pristine cream rug was gone, replaced by a massive, horrific puddle of dark, dried blood. It looked like a slaughterhouse. The blood was smeared across the hardwood floor, trailing toward the door in desperate, hand-shaped streaks where I had tried to crawl for help. Bloody towels lay discarded in the corner, stiff and brown.
His eyes darted wildly to the bassinet. It was empty. The blankets were tossed aside.
“Maya?!” The shout tore from his throat, raw with genuine terror.
Not terror for me. Terror for himself.
He stumbled backward, clutching his chest as his heart hammered against his ribs. He grabbed his phone, his hands shaking so violently he dropped it twice before managing to open his recent calls.
He saw the twenty missed calls from Elena. He saw the voicemail notifications from the local hospital. He saw the texts that he had swiped away without reading because he was 'protecting his peace'.
He listened to the first voicemail.
“Mr. Vance, this is Dr. Aris at County General. Your wife has been admitted in critical condition. She has suffered a catastrophic hemorrhage and is in surgery. We need you here immediately.”
Mark’s legs gave out. He collapsed against the wall of the hallway, sliding down to the floor.
He stared at the crimson-stained nursery, the empty bassinet, the undeniable evidence of the horror he had walked away from. Every trace of his manufactured confidence, every ounce of his arrogant swagger, evaporated into thin air.
He realized in that agonizing moment that he hadn't just abandoned his annoying wife. He had abandoned a dying woman. He had committed a moral crime so heinous that it could destroy his reputation, his career, and his entire life.
May you like
He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the nausea in his gut. He had to get to the hospital. He had to spin this. He had to find a way to make this look like a tragic accident, to prove he didn't know how bad it was.
He had to save himself.
