He couldn’t sleep, the world weighing heavy on his slumped shoulders. Why? Could’ve been anything – the dead-end job, the unfaithful wife, the idiot kids. Take your pick.
He opened the fridge and saw the empty water pitcher. Typical. He moved over to the kitchen sink, ran the faucet.
The first glass was welcome – cold, refreshing.
He couldn’t get through the second. Thick, metallic.
He spit, flipped on the lights.
Blood. Everywhere. In his glass… on the counter… in the sink…
He shrieked. No one came.
He heard the front door scrape open and screamed again.
Still nothing.
And still nobody…
The Weekday One Hundred 