The Shoes

There’s his shoes. So where’s the bastard?”

Dirk hissed through clenched teeth and fisted the cupboard door.

“We’ll take them back for forensics,” I replied and took out a few evidence bags, bending to pick them up.

He brushed clumsily against my chest, yanking me away from the open door with his large strong hands.

“Sorry Kate,” he replied, and even in the dim light I perceived his flushed awkwardness.

Smoothing over my blouse, I pulled on the lapels of my jacket and avoided his gaze. Now was not the time to be distracted.

I rushed to fill the awkward silence but my voice faltered.

“Wha..t’s wrong?”

“There’s something phoney. It looks staged.”

He pulled me even farther away and squatted to look closer.

As I peered round his back to get a better view I heard the click, saw the blinding white and yellow flash and felt a searing pain in both ears.

I don’t know where I am now or how long I’ve been here.

Rid of all feelings and sensations, my lifeless body obstinately refuses to die.

Even my will is broken.

Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner is once again proposed by Roger Shipp. The prompt was chosen at Pixabay (An excellent source for images). Thanks Roger!

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