The blood on my walls is still warm. “Desperation,” I read, feeling a growing sense of dread.

Tick. Tick. Tick. A measured, metallic clicking fills the empty house.

I follow the wet, blotchy trail of crimson down the hallway. It hasn’t dried yet, I think. I still have time.

Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock disagrees.

I round a corner too sharply and bump my head, seeing stars. As I stumble into the master bedroom, I’m too dazed to realize that the ticking sound has stopped.

I see the chair, kicked to the side, before I see the hanging feet. Before I see the slashed arm that drips blood, or the finger that was dipped and written with. A dark puddle is collecting under the swaying corpse.

My heart seizes as the pieces slot together and I see what I couldn’t see before.

“A rope ends it.”