The Dirge of John and Jane Doe

by Trenchcoat Tardigrade

The chipped souvenir coffee cup sat half-empty on the table across from the blood-spattered dining room chair. Dressed for a day of yard work, his body lay sprawled across the floor. Blood oozed from what remained of his head, tracing the path of grout lines to the sparsely stocked pantry. The smell of slightly burned coffee mellowed the stench of death. Dirty dishes reflected the blue lights pulsing through the early morning haze. She glanced again at the pile of unpaid bills. With trembling hands, she gripped the gun and took one last sip.