This is part of a series of flash fiction stories. Stay tune for the next episode.
You better come down on her now.
The night was still, except for the turntable playing Bobby Bare’s “Find Out What’s Happening.” It was happening in a small room, with five walls, all enclosing a sturdy bed. The walls were tinted a pallid and dark purple, on account of it being night. At morning, the girl would cheerfully burst into the white room and fail to suppress a deep, wailing gasp.
But that night, on 372 Dread Drive, within those pale livid walls, a man sat on top of a pillow, giggling wildly, with slim arms shooting upwards. He was buckling. Underneath him was the widow Mavon, gasping and flailing, looking for any way to shove off the man sitting on top of her face.
She cursed as loud as her lungs would allow her. She moaned and prayed to God, please let her life be spared. She kicked and wondered who was the monster who wanted her to suffer this much. She scratched and demanded a reason why anyone would want her dead. That was her last thought. Her last word.
The man’s volatile and desperate bouncing increased, but the song was finished. He was torn; should he move the needle or should he remain here? With one last energetic slump, he pushed downward. There was a crack. He grabbed the pillow toward his side, but there was something apparently stuck to the fabric. As he pulled it towards himself, he saw a denture dangling by the sheet. It swerved gently side to side as the man lifted the pillow before his eyes to see better. He didn’t want to touch it, so he strongly shook it, leaving the teeth hidden under the bed.
It was four in the morning. The man walked in the direction of the beach to see the sunrise, humming “Find Out What’s Happening” all the way south.