This is another short story I decided to write one night.  Please excuse the formatting; I could fix it but I'm too lazy.  The title is as-of-yet undetermined.  Read. Raaaaaa.

*****

The candlelight flickered softly against a velvet backdrop of darkness, punctuated only by the single dot of light wavering and steadying in turn at the center of the table. She raised her glass of red wine, took a sip; the ambient light shimmered in the bitter swirls of the shiraz as the woman took a moment to stare off into the distance, a small, barely noticeable smile on her beautiful face.
A sigh of contentment.

She took another sip, savored the rich flavors, and continued to sit in a contemplative air of silence.

He watched it all from the second-story landing.

Elena had taken lately to this, this dining alone at a candlelit table, just herself seated, no guests. Not even him. In the past he would often join her, the two of them at the table focused just on each other. The television would be on in the other room but he wouldn't really watch it, would just look at her and watch her every nuance, every subtlety. And love it.
Not lately, though.

No, lately she would take her seat by herself without inviting him, even though they had been together for years. She would laugh condescendingly when he would come down, say how “he doesn't even like wine” (as if that had stopped him before), and would ignore him despite his attempts at engaging her. Just sit there and sip her wine, like always. And he would be relegated to his usual spot at the top of the stairs, staring as if he were a complete stranger.
That's what it was, that's what it had become. It was like he was a stranger in his own house.Now, he had other reasons for this conclusion, of course. He was never one to make something out of nothing, and if it were just this then he would have dismissed it as soon as it entered his mind. No, something was amiss. Something-
“I think it's time for bed, Randy. What do you think?”
She stood, shook her hair back in that way he so loved. Chestnut hair falling in waves over her shoulders, eyes flashing, makeup put on to perfection. He couldn't help but keep silent and look as she walked towards him, took the stairs one by one, passed him and stopped long enough to trace a hand through his hair.

“Well, do what you want. I'm tired. Don't stay up too late.”
Elena winked and disappeared into the hallway to the master bedroom, leaving Randy to his thoughts.

She's always so patronizing. So damn patronizing.

He hated every bit of it.

There was a time in their relationship, long ago it seemed, during which the feelings between the two were clear, unmistakable. They were best friends, thought nothing of spending long nights together, she curled up in bed reading a book with some soft strains of classical music on the stereo, he lying next to her, doing nothing but looking at her hair, the way the light played off of her eyes, taking in the ambiance of the moment. She would always reach out and gently caress the top of his head, his shoulders, his back, stroking his body with her beautiful hands, hands that took care of him and loved him and showed him all the attention he could ever want or need. Those times were perfect. Utterly perfect.

But all had changed. Now he would go to her room, lay next to her, his body against hers, his head softly against her shoulder, snuggling her expectantly, eyes full of adoration, wanting her touch, her smile. She would yawn, feign exhaustion, roll over and turn the lights off, ignoring him for the rest of the night, sometimes going as far as pushing him aside and taking the covers for herself, and not in the way of the mischievous lovers after a midnight tryst. Too tired.
What could she possibly be doing that would make her too tired for him at night? The possibilities were neither endless nor impossible to fathom.

He snorted and rose from his position.

***

Her laughter twinkled like a fine chandelier, crystalline in its beauty, melodic, wavering just so across the expanse. Normally he would savor such music. Not, however, when the recipient is not him.
She laughed again into the phone and smiled her smile. Not for him, though.
“Oh, go on. Don't say that.”
Randy observed her from his usual spot at the top of the stairs, but this time – like numerous others – she did not know he was there, or was even home. He was supposed to be out, but he had a habit of sneaking in through the kitchen to his perch, to watch Elena quietly without her knowing. Initially, several long months ago when this began, he felt pangs of guilt with each stolen second. He knew such behavior was probably unwarranted and undeserved – at the time, at least. Now, though, the opposite was true; he no longer felt guilt, or shame, no longer felt that Elena was innocent and pure like she once had been when they had first met. Now, he sat like this and watched, and stored in his mind yet another red mark to mar the once-porcelain surface of their relationship.
Another mark, another offense.
“I told you so. It's not easy for us single folk. You guys have to work so hard to woo a woman, with flowers, and candy, and love, and jewelry...”
Another laugh.
“Oh, James, tell me you're still a romantic at heart. Wouldn't want to...disappoint me, after all.”
Randy seethed quietly.
“No, you know I'm here alone. He's been gone for a while, like always. You could...come over, if you want.” Pause. “No, no, that's fine.”
Good, Randy thought. I'd rip his throat out.
“Okay, yeah, sure, that'll work. I'll just come over there. I'll be there in, 10 or so? Okay, see you.”
She hung up, the husky tone of the last few words weighing heavily in the silence. Randy burned inside, growled softly to himself, cursing her and her secret lover – James, she said once – and her heart, her black heart that would torment his own without any regard to his thoughts, his feelings, his needs, all the comfort and love and attention he gave her. And now she pretended he didn't even exist. Confronting her would serve no purpose; it would make no difference in the way of things, would not change the situation a bit other than worsen a relationship already mortally wounded.
These little phone calls, captured in secret, full of lies and deceit. The worst was that she barely acknowledged his presence, always saying “He left a while ago” and “I've been alone ever since” and “Don't worry, it's okay to see me” and “I'll be there/you can come here/let's get together”.
“I'll just come over there.”

***

She returned through the kitchen, quietly, not knowing where Randy was at the moment but not wanting to wake him. The hour was late and she did not feel the need to explain her whereabouts to him, as humorous as the thought was to her slightly-tipsy mind. Fifteen after midnight. Time does indeed fly when one is having fun, fun that has not been felt for far too long. She smiled with satisfaction, took a wine glass from the rack in the kitchen, and poured herself a chilled glass of white wine as she half-walked, half-waltzed into the living room and to her sofa. She sighed.
The phone rang.
Startled, Elena sat her cold glass down and picked up the phone.

“Hello? Oh, James. I just left, what's wrong?”
His reply caused her to giggle like a school girl flattered and too proud to hide it.
“Well, I'm glad you missed me so soon. I tend to have that effect on g-”

He growled.

She spun around, slamming the phone down in the cradle awkwardly, her hand rising to her throat.

“Jesus!”
He did not say anything.

She closed her eyes and gulped, took a deep breath and exhaled, then smiled, a thin, wan smile that did nothing to crinkle her eyes the way real smiles do. “You scared the daylights out of me. I must have left the front door open. Glad it was you and not someone else.“
He said nothing, only came closer.

Elena turned back around, ran a hand through her hair and stood as Randy made his way around the kitchen furniture, his feet clicking against the linoleum floor, eyes focused on her, a bit of saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth. She smiled at him, reached out to touch him-

-and recoiled as he bared his teeth and growled again.
Her mouth fell open.
“Honestly, Randy, what has gotten into you?”
He didn't answer, didn't want to give her the benefit of the doubt. She knew, that bitch. She knew. He wouldn't play these games anymore. No more secret telephone calls from men, from strange, mysterious men who had no business with her. No more playing pretend, acting as if things hadn't changed. Well, bitch, they had.
He was finished with the entire damn charade
Elena backed away from Randy as he continued to growl, his eyes bearing witness to the aggression and anger building up inside, ready to explode in a fury of jealousy and rage. She was highly alarmed; he had never, ever acted like this, not once since she had known him, and now this. Without thinking she clutched at her throat, instinctively, and turned to head upstairs before Randy leapt at her without warning and plowed into her, knocking her form down at the landing.

He fell on top of her on all fours, panting heavily like an animal, as she screamed loudly and shoved hard into Randy's body. She then rolled over on her side and struggled to her feet but not before Randy lunged out and in a flash of teeth bit her in her ankle.

Another scream, and a kick; Randy's jaw clapped shut painfully as she yelled, grabbed the railing and hauled her way up. Randy did not pursue at once. He had no need to.

She had nowhere to go.

***

The flashing red and blue lights reflected off of the windows as the cruisers pulled up to the street. The doors opened and out stepped two uniformed officers who surveyed the scene as they make their way purposefully up the walkway to the front door, closed. A neighbor of this residence had called in to dispatch citing an emergency, apparently hearing screams and shouts coming from the house next door. The two officers responded to the call and found themselves at the two-story home, lights shining through the windows on the ground floor with the rest of the house in darkness. Through the window they could view the kitchen and the open kitchen door, unnaturally so; people often do not leave their doors unsecured, not in this day and age. One cop stopped, turned to the other. They exchanged a glance.

The one in front took out his pistol and cautiously opened the front door, peering in as his partner called in for another unit.

“Police. Anyone home?”
No answer.

He frowned and slid through the open portal, gun held ready, eyes sweeping the house. Everything was still. Utter silence. The living room was softly lit, as if someone had just recently been there and was indeed at home, a light blanket on the sofa next to a half-full glass of white wine on the coffee table. The officer noted this and continued through, his partner bringing up the rear.

After a sweep through the bottom floor, a search that turned up nothing, the officers came to the foot of the stairs. The second one grabbed his partner's arm and pointed silently to the floor.

A spot of crimson.

Both looked up the stairs. More spots, forming a trail up the staircase leading to the top floor of the house.

The first officer exhaled and nodded slightly.

He took a step, and then another, and the two police officers made their way carefully and silently up the carpeted stairs, taking care to avoid the unmistakable splotches of human blood that now grew more and more pronounced and numerous with each step. Ahead, on the top floor, the shadows hung heavily from the walls and the atmosphere grew tense with a dark, brooding anticipation, as if the entire house conspired against the two, keeping some vile horror in wait for anyone to come and see. The lights from the police cruiser parked outside still swept through the windows and lit up the darkness, but the luminesence only heightened the dread suspense that lay about.

The officers reached the top of the stairs.

In front of them was a hallway running perpendicular to them; on each end were rooms, all with closed doors and utter silence. Save one. One was open, revealing a room completely black and devoid of any trace of light or sound or anything discernible to the officers who peered in, pistols raised.

The trail of blood led right through the opening.

“This is the police. If there is anyone in there, come out now with your hands raised.”
The command resonated eerily through the deep silence that lay about the floor like a fog. Something had gone terribly wrong. And someone was still there.

“This is the police. Come out now, hands raised above your head.”
No reply.

The officer narrowed his eyes and gripped his pistol tighter as his partner moved quietly to the side of the door.

“This is your last warning. Come out now!”

Nothing.

He inhaled softly, counted to three in his head. And nodded to his partner.

The two burst into the room, pistols out, the first yelling “Don't move!”, the second reaching for the light switch on the near wall. He flicked it on.

Light flooded the room.

And the two officers gasped.

A female body lay across the bed, arms and limbs askew, one hand clutching a blood-splattered bedspread. The light purple walls and the lush white carpet and the satin sheets were covered and sprayed with crimson. Liquid dripped from the bedpost onto the floor. A necklace spotted with gore lay broken on top of a still chest. The officers saw the torn ankle as their eyes traveled methodically upwards, observing scratch marks on the thighs, blood oozing from tears in the yellow satin robe, and heavy bruising towards the top of the chest at the base of the neck. Two blue eyes stared into empty space at nothing. Below them, a once-lipsticked mouth was set in a horrific grimace.

The throat was ripped open.

The officers had seen dead bodies before. That undesirable experience was a part of their jobs, and even gruesome murders such as this were not exactly an uncommon occurrence. But the macabre display before them was not what was so particularly disturbing to the two men, who stood there dumbfounded, pistols hanging listlessly in their hands down by their sides. No, Elena Rigby lying cold and covered in gore on the bed before them was not what shocked them.
“Son of a ...”

What got to the men, and what they would later tell their fellow officers and wives and friends in disbelief, was the appearance of the murderer at the foot of the bed.

The dog wagged his tail and licked his blood-stained lips as the officers looked on.