WeWriMo Day 1: The Sun Shines While Something Horrible Happens

Special Agent Raynard Roth stood in the yard to the farmhouse, his flashlight beam weak and yellow in the early dusk. White sheets dotted the lawn, ghosts wrapped around the bodies of their previous vessels. He felt them, but didn't taste the bitterness of lives cut short as he would expect.

The local law enforcement had cleared the space. All-in-all, five murders. Each with no external injuries. Seemingly dropped dead where they stood. And either shortly before or after, they began to bleed from their eyes. It was an unorthodox scenario which required an unorthodox investigator. In this case, a Blink like Raynard.

The sheriff of the nearby hamlet stood well off from Raynard now, hiding behind the door of his prowler. Even at this distance, Raynard smelled the sheriff's distrust and curiosity mingling in an acrid mist. "You gettin' anything?" the sheriff's voice came over a walkie talkie at Raynard's hip.

"Not yet," he said, trying to stay professional. "I'll be in contact."

Raynard looked about. Flat plains stretched on in every direction. Not a single house or structure within view. The stars began to shine and he was saddened by their display. Beauty wasted on the dead and detached.

He walked forward to the first body and outstretched a gloved hand. Gently tugging the sheet away, he was greeted with a smile. Not a stretched, maniacal grin, but the soft smile of an emotion Raynard had rarely tasted. The sublime. The dried, black crimson tears that were now dried on the mother's face were ones of joy.

Raynard tucked the sheet back, tucking her in for the remainder of her rest. Catching the emotional scent, he now detected it on the three other bodies scattered about the yard. And a faint wisp curling out of the screen door. He climbed the steps to the porch and saw the door was ajar. Upon closer inspection there was no sign of forced entry. Nor was there shock splattered about the door as he might find if a stranger had appeared brandishing a knife.

Inside, he saw the kitchen table had been set with a meal. Half-drunk glasses of milk had begun to curdle. In the kitchen, another sheet-shrouded figure sat in a chair. Judging by the shape and build, Raynard assumed the father. He pulled the sheet away and stuck a hand over his mouth and nose.

The father sat with his head bowed, as in prayer. His heart rested in the bowl of his hands. The stench of blood and sweet notes of the sublime made Raynard want to vomit.

"You didn't tell me the father was cut up," Raynard barked into the walkie talkie.

"Son," the sheriff said and there was a pause of hissing static. "The father's body wasn't touched."

Raynard immediately felt his mind knocked down by a tidal wave of emotion and images.

The late day sun shone into the kitchen. The father's skin was golden, the hair on his arms luminous. The light danced along the dishes in the sink, each popping bubble a shower of sparks. The killer stood behind the father. Raynard couldn't see their face, but he knew, could feel it creating a hole in his stomach, that the killer was smiling. They had left this little greeting card for him to find.

Raynard tore himself away, physically backing up against the far wall. He forced himself to look away and saw a height chart etched into the nearest doorframe. Warm tears fell from his eyes, smelling of copper and fragrant fear. He tried to steady himself, to practice the detachment he had been trained to adopt. But he couldn't. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw the sun gleaming through the bloody tears of the father, how they filled the whirls of his fingerprint. Like they were made for this exact moment.

And It was all so beautiful.