Rosy Red

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The hot sweltering summer night of ‘54 had just taken hold of the Butler mansion, as Rosalind finished splashing some of her favorite nail polish on her petite fingernails. Rosalind Butler, a mere adolescent of 17, was the daughter of quite a fortune. After Maxwell Butler had struck oil some 30 years ago, his income exponentially grew and in the same year engaged to another fortune-- the singing wonder by the name of Laura Blunt. She was not in the least attracted to the fleshy, meaty man that he was, only to his fleshy, meaty pocketbook. When she had been blessed with a newborn she immediately left him, took a grand sum of money and disappeared. From the moment this “blessed newborn” was brought into the world, she was ignored almost all the time. With no mother and a billionaire father, she practically raised herself. As if she wasn’t brushed off enough, she received this treatment from many of her friends, even her last beau, Amory. She was still recuperating that night, for it only had been two days after she had done the terrible deed. Of course the boy wasn’t ecstatic about the break up, but she could not and certainly would not tolerate it; she received the same treatment a bit too much from her father. After she finished powdering her face, she decided to horse around with the $500 pedigree English terrier.
Tap tap tap tap
“Is...is anyone there?” squeaked Rosalind, petrified. She thought she heard a faint tapping from the ground floor.
Tap tap tap tap
She heard it again, this time with greater force and urgency. By force of habit, she stopped what she was doing and headed towards the door. With the terrier under her arm, she went to the front door and flung it open, half expecting her father.
It was daily routine: Mr. Butler would head out briskly at dusk and come home in the middle of the night. Like all Friday nights, he would enjoy a luxurious dinner, adore some luxurious single women and fit in a dance or two at a luxurious establishment, while leaving his only daughter at home. Now one might reach some conclusions about Mr. Butler, but Rosalind could tell you much worse; only she just didn’t give a d*mn. She peered out but saw only the moonlit shadow of the mansion on the leafy greens. Nobody. Not even her father.
Tap tap tap tap
Her heart just about went up her throat and out the mouth at this point, with her looming imagination constructing terrifying images in her mind.

“Owwie!” she squeaked again, as the little pedigree terrier nipped her well-manicured hand, and scurried away. Who could blame him, her “petrified self” almost squashed the poor dog alive.

“Now where in heavens did that mutt go?” She murmured. She desperately tried to turn on the light fuse, but the darkness was overpowering. The power lines are always tangled up in this godd*mn house she thought. Colossal beads of sweat dripped down Rosalind’s face as her options ran out. She always thought things through with the utmost care, just a knack she acquired out of the blue. Rosalind snatched the closest object to her that looked by any means threatening. This particular object happened to be a scrawny dog show trophy, won by none other than the majestic terrier, currently missing in action.
Tap tap tap tap
The noise continued, this time more sporadic and vigorous. She followed the tapping with her ears--it seemed to be coming from the floor below. Trophy in hand, she cautiously shuffled toward the winding staircase. Rosalind’s curiosity pushed her toward the first step, but fear made her hesitate. She scrupulously walked down every step and finally made it to the basement of the mansion. With the trophy now slipping out of her sweat drenched hands, she perked her ears for the noise, hoping to locate it.
Tap tap tap tap
Storage room, she immediately thought. Darkness swallowed up nearly all of her surroundings as she hopelessly tried to navigate her way through. With each step, she tried to hum some Frank Sinatra. Humming Sinatra seemed to calm poor Rosalind down. She didn’t really quite know why. Perhaps her mother sang it to her when she was a baby. Heck, she didn’t even know what her mother looked like, only that she was a godd*mn gold digger. Closer, closer, closer she edged to the storage room. It had been a while since the last tapping. The silence seemed to frighten her even more than the wretched taps. Oh, how much she wanted her precious dog, anyone, even her carefree no good excuse of a father to be there, but there was only darkness. Mind numbing darkness. She entered the vacant room, which only contained wood, nails, and some spare paint that hadn’t been used since Lincoln was president.
Tap tap tap
She jerked her head towards the noise and could make out a piece of cloth moving ever so slightly. Her clammy, trembling hand reached forward, inching toward the moving cloth. Her hand jerked the cloth free, and let out a shattering scream that scarred the air. The moving cloth was really the family’s terrier, now gored and sliced sloppily through the head and legs, leaving a pool of blood and innards. The poor dog’s leg spasms were constantly tapping the bloodied plank adjacent to it.
“Looks like the ol’ terrier’s better at tapping than me, eh Rosy?” said a crestfallen voice.
“Amory?” whimpered the horrified Rosalind. In a matter of seconds, Rosalind lay on the floor, limp and cold with blood still gushing out of her split head. The boy then took out two glasses out of his trousers and poured some soda pop carelessly, spilling some of the contents on the blood bathed floor. He then placed one of the soda filled glasses in the lifeless hand of Rosalind.
“Here’s to you Rosy.” He smirked, as he sipped down the soda and plunged the rusty knife in his heart. As he fell to the floor his glass slipped out of his hands and landed neatly on the 19th century couch. From what the eye could see, the contents that remained appeared to have a slight tint of scarlet.





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