Dragging a chair to the windowsill, I climbed up and began tearing down the wedding decorations I had so carefully placed that morning. One by one, the red ribbons and banners fluttered to the blood-soaked floor like mocking remnants of the life that had been celebrated just hours ago.
The last ribbon fell just as the door burst open and the police stormed in, their voices shouting commands. I turned to face them, my expression blank, as they surrounded me, their guns drawn.
The living room was a storm of chaos. Officers moved briskly, their boots clomping heavily against the blood-streaked floor as they snapped photos and bagged evidence. Their faces were etched with a mix of revulsion and professionalism, the gruesome scene testing even the most seasoned among them.
Near the center of the room, David lay sprawled, his body trembling faintly with shallow breaths. His blood-soaked clothes clung to him like a second skin, the metallic tang of blood overpowering the air. When one officer noticed the faint rise and fall of his chest, his shout shattered the tense murmurs.
“He’s alive! Get a stretcher here, now!”