Rainfall flooded the narrow streets he knew like the back of his hand, blurring the vision through his windshield. He was a cautious driver by now, having experienced enough accidents, his wheels to his car rotated just a little above a crawl as he edged in the direction of his street. It was early night, but the luminous clouds darkened everything. It appeared no earlier than midnight.

Lightening flashed.

Turning the corner towards the driveway, Cruz subconsciously began pushing his foot down on the brake. He didn't realize he was doing so until the car eased itself into a complete stop; he closed his agape jaw and put it in park without second thought. Not bothering to turn the headlights off, or even the car, he stepped out and nearly slammed the red door behind him.

"Bitch." He muttered under his breath as he approached the unfamiliar car in his driveway. It was a Camry, newer. He wasn't the greatest with cars, but he recognized this one to know nobody he knew owned this car. Surely he wasn't expected to be home, maybe his wife just had some company over. The thought only irked him more. Rain pounding heavily on his shoulders, Cruz slowly trudged up the steps to the front door.

He fought the inner turmoil he had, he didn't want to believe she'd pull this again, but he knew it was highly likely. Of course, he was only working so late to provide for her, was this what happened when he decided to come early, again, for her? He was regretting opening the door, but did so in a slow manner, barely hearing the squeak of the door due to the rain padding on the wood of the porch.

Thunder roared.

But that wasn't enough to block out the noise that came from the top of the steps. Rain dripped from his weighty hooded sweatshirt to the ground beneath him, he could feel his normally loose-fitting jeans cling to his damp thighs. The mud that clung to the soles of his boots started to trail across the wooden floor and onto the kitchen tiles. He pulled the blade he knew was sharpest from the knife holder on the counter. He cooked often enough to know which to grab. The mud then made its way with him up the carpeted staircase. He didn't have to look down to know, he didn't really care.

The sounds of soft moans and grunts grew louder as he made his way through the narrow halls. He made sure to keep his steps quiet as he neared the bedroom door, hearing the bed rock, the moans, the panting, everything. She was really doing this to him again. She wouldn't get away with it, he wouldn't allow her too.

Rain tapped on the windows.

He went into his hallway closet and felt around the top shelf, pulling his gun down. The metal felt cool on his coarse hand as he loaded it, barely focusing on his actions. He was too filled with rage, held too much hate, yet his body felt so calm. His face was dispassionate, his lidded eyes showing nothing he felt inside. His steps were calm, quiet. His breaths remained even as he opened the door, watching the figures under the sheet move, mingle with each other. Feeling the corner of his lips twitch he ripped the blanket off and watched the pair gasp, shuffle to cover their naked bodies. Barely aiming, he held up the pistol, the limp body of a stranger went limp over his wife, who screamed in terror, shoving the body away as she covered herself with the reddened sheet.

She didn't mean to, this man meant nothing to her, she barely knew him, she was lonely; she went on. She really loved him, Cruz that was; she wouldn't do anything like this again. He tranquilly took a few steps to her, which seemed to startle her more. Her body trembled with fear, her shaky hands clenching the sheet that covered her body. You're crazy, you won't ever get away with this, this is why an affair started, it was you. You're insane.

He nonchalantly grabbed a fistful of her hair, dragging her to him. She began begging for her life again, shrieking her sobs. If he wanted she would leave, she wouldn't tell a soul what she saw, and she'd never return. She felt the cool barrel of the gun on her chin and screamed for him. He growled, knotting his brows together at her pitiful pleas. She did this, how dare she?

He pulled the trigger.

Dropping her lifeless body carelessly on the carpet, Cruz sat on the edge of his bed; blood seemed to overcome the room now. He wiped his wife's blood off his face with a clean part of the blanket. He stared down at the pistol in the palm of his hand, and then glanced back around the room. She was gone now, forever. Yet, he felt the anger from her actions course through his veins. Why was it now he felt the undeniable anger? Was it that he had lost it again? That he had gone to this extreme? And the whole while he was calm, maybe a state of shock; the entire time he committed his sinful deed. He angrily looked back up, glancing around his room.

He only saw one thing;

[ red ]