Akira dropped his head to the floor. Tears streaming and hitting the bloody floor diluting it.
He reached inside his pocket and pulled out his phone.
His fingers trembled as he tapped the emergency call button.
The blood smeared his fingers. He didn't even realise till he saw the red marks on the phone screen.
The dispatcher picked up.
"What's your emergency?"
He couldn't speak at first. His mouth opened, but only air came out. He finally choked out, "Th-They're dead... They're just lying there"
"Sorry? Who's dead"
Akira's voice cracked as he tried to maintain a steady voice "My...Mom and...sister"
"Sir, stay calm. Are you safe right now? Is there any signs of an attacker still present?"
"I—I don't know. I just got home from work. The door was closed. I found them in the living room."
"Help is on the way. Stay on the line if you can. Can you tell me your address?"
"13 Onitetsu Street, Nishima District"
"May I have your full name?"
"Akira Shibaura"
There was a brief pause on the other end, then the dispatcher's voice softened, almost amused, but careful "Like the director?"
Akira didn't bother correcting it. He'd heard the joke more times than he could count — people confusing him with the director of The Samurai Chronicles and last year's movie Dark Without Dawn.
He swallowed hard and focused on staying on the line.
"Alright, Akira," the dispatcher said softly, "the police and paramedics are on their way. Try to stay where you are and don't touch anything else."
Akira nodded to himself, though the dispatcher couldn't see it. His breath was shallow, chest tight with panic.
He stared at the lifeless forms of his mother and sister. The gruesome sight made his stomach churn.
Akira staggered toward the bathroom, each step heavier than the last. The metallic taste in his mouth worsened, curling his stomach into knots.
He gripped the edge of the sink, white-knuckled, as a cold sweat broke across his forehead. His vision blurred at the edges, the harsh bathroom light twisting into halos.
The sound of his own breathing was ragged, uneven — a shaky rhythm he couldn't control.
His throat tightened, muscles clenched, but it was no use.
He turned sharply, barely making it to the toilet before the bile rose violently, burning in his throat. The harsh, acidic taste mixed with the metallic tang of blood made him gag again.
Leaning over the bowl, he fought to steady his shaking hands, but tears welled up, blurring his sight.
Why...? The thought hit like a punch. Why did this happen? What did I miss?
The bathroom walls seemed to close in, suffocating him in silence except for the echo of his own retching.
When the spasms finally subsided, Akira remained bent over, trembling — drained, broken, and more alone than ever.
He vomited once again. This time it felt like his heart was about to fall out of his mouth as if the pain was clawing its way out.
The dripping faucet served as a background noise to remind him that it is reality, not a dream.
He had no tears left to shed, instead blood came out.
It is said when one receives extreme grief, trauma or even anger tears aren't effective to convey the extreme emotional turmoil raging inside the person. To compensate for this the tear ducts swell up and release blood. Hence why the common saying that the eyes are the windows to the soul and why you can learn a lot about a new person just by studying their eyes.
The blood vessels present in his eyes burst staining his sclera crimson.
Thoughts swirled in his mind.
"Who did this?"
"Why did they do this?"
"WHY AM I ALIVE?"
He flushed the toilet and washed his face.
The blood ran down the sink mirroring his hope escaping from him every single moment that passed.
He looked at the mirror and clutched his face tightly. the disgust of survivor's guilt settling in.
"Why.... why did they have to die."
He punched the mirror shattering it. the shards embedding into his hand drawing blood . Yet he felt no pain. Well not physically. Mentally he's been past just pain but rather in the stage of mental hell.
He looked at the scattered shards. Each a memory of his once happy family, now destroyed.
He slammed the wall.
"Damn it. Damn it all"
"If only I didn't do that shitty shift. Maybe they would have been alive and I would be the one on the floor. That would be better" He sobbed while slamming the wall.
He stumbled to the living room once again. Where he relived the shock he felt witnessing the bodies for the first time.
The sight was carved into his brain — not a memory, but a scar. One he'd carry until the day he died.
Then a revelation hit him.
He sprinted out to the front door.
Nothing.
He checked the back door.
Nothing.
He checked all the windows.
Nothing.
There were no signs of a forced entry.