Soaked in Red

Ernest Miller put a bottle of wine in the basket of his bicycle, as he did every Thursday. He was a millionaire of inheritance, upholding the Miller name as president of Miller Knives Company. Though 56 years of age—not one gray hair on his head—Ernest was single. Coquettish women of all ages flirted with him, but he knew that they were aware of his wealth. He was content with Mary even though they had to be together secretly.

Mary was an honest woman for the most part. She had been married for almost 40 years; in the midpoint of those 40 years, she began developing a façade that made her appear to be happily married. She wanted more. Mary was in the grocery store, checking off the necessities and luxuries on her list, when she first saw Ernest. He was weighing a bag of grapes when her eye drifted to him. He was wearing a dark gray suit, his face bearing an always trimmed beard. She knew about him, but never said one word to him, nor him to her. She knew of his company, and the millions that it wielded. However, that didn’t interest her—her husband was rich, not as rich as Ernest, but they never had to worry about money. They talked for the first time that night—in the line at the register—and that was the beginning of their hidden relationship.

Mary’s husband worked late on Thursdays so that’s when Ernest would come over to their house. They lived in a small town; if any one of the neighbors noticed Ernest going over to that house, her husband would find out the next day, without fail. Usually Ernest drove a brand new Cadillac, but everyone knew who drove that car because nobody in town had one besides him. So he bought a rusting bike from a thrift shop, and pedaled his way down the road with a worn hat on his head every week. And every week he brought along a bottle of wine, pulled directly from his basement collection.

Ernest made it a habit to get ready and ride over to the house at six, always arriving at 6:30. That Thursday was no different; it was 6 o’clock so he got dressed in casual clothing, which was quite the contrast to his usual business suit. He put the wine in the basket, and made his way down the long winding road that led to his large yet subtle mansion.

He took his feet off the pedals, allowing gravity to push him down the road. He was admiring the forest that stretched across below the right side of the driveway when he realized he forgot his wallet. In harmony with this realization, the chain on his bicycle snapped. The sound of the break echoed above the tops of the trees. A coyote bellowed a howl that seemed to respond to the crack of the chain. The back end of the bicycle lifted to please the force of the momentum, sending Ernest over the handlebars. His head bounced off the gravel road and he rolled onto the hill that poured steeply into the forest. Unconscious, he tumbled down the hill until he was finally stopped by a tree. His head crashed into the base of the trunk.

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Mary was worried; Ernest was never late. It was 7 o’clock and there was no sign of him. She called his house several times. No answer. She could see him in her mind pulling his bike into the garage with the bottle of wine in the basket. She loved him much more than she did her husband. She wished she could tell everyone, but she was confined by marriage.

The relationship between her and her husband had been deteriorating for some time, long before she met Ernest in the store. They always held each other when they went to sleep in the first few years of their marriage. However, swelling tension caused them to sleep with their backs facing each other.

The clock swung around to 8 o’clock as she became more worried. She got into her car; she was on her way to Ernest’s house.

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Ernest’s eyes opened with a start, he was dreary. Attempting to get up caused a throbbing pain. His hand shot up to feel his head, only to come back into his vision soaked in red. He rose slowly, putting his hand on the rough bark of the tree to steady himself. He didn’t know where or who he was. Looking around, he only saw the trees towering over him; a wind was glistening through the scarcity of leaves.

He heard a distant sound coming from ahead of him. He began to walk, treating each step with caution. Several minutes later he spotted a road resting atop a subtle hill, cars swishing by intermittently.

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Mary had her headlights turned on; the curtains of night had completely met. She was only a few minutes from his house. She had never been inside of it before, only seeing it in passing, but she was dreading to drive up the narrow road to get to his mansion.

Turning onto the road that led to Ernest’s driveway, she pulled a cigarette out of her purse and slipped it into her mouth. She grabbed the cigarette lighter that rested on the dashboard and flicked it twice. No fire. Only the smell of butane trickled into her nostrils. She hit a pothole, sending the lighter into the depthless floorboard.

“Shit,” she said, the cigarette bobbing. She took her right arm off the wheel and reached down to the floorboard. The moment she took her eye off the road to spot the lighter, a thud sounded in front of her. She looked up and saw the blood on her windshield, splattered like a Jackson Pollack painting.

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Ernest finally reached the road, he stood on the edge and looked down the street, it was pitch black. He heard a dim humming coming from behind him. He turned around as two circles of light were becoming brighter. Not knowing what it was, he stood there, hoping whatever it was would help him. The light became more intense, the hum a deafening roar.