A pool of dirty maroon colored liquid soaking the doorway mat wasn’t exactly in the top ten of things I wished to come home to.

Maybe Uncle Phil just spilled his cola. That happened once, and the molecules stubbornly ingrained into the fabric saw three days of my futile endeavor to scrub it clean before being kicked to the curb. Or worse it could be vodka. He’s so drunk sometimes that imagining him collapsing on to the front door was not at all far-fetched. Curtsy to him, the house always stunk with the taste of alcohol that no amount of detergent can purge. “Please don’t be vodka,” I prayed.

Fumbling with to find my keys, the silence behind the doors made its presence. Uncle Phil loved to crank up Rock n’ Roll, how it cured his hung-over and eternal drunkenness was anyone’s guess. Maybe he’s asleep. I could stealth like a rat to my room and avoid all conversations! My mouth curved upwards just as I found the right key and slid it silently into the lock.

Well. It was not vodka. But I sure hope it was.

My eyes followed from the puddle of reddish-brown liquid, tracing its tributaries as they stretch out on the floor like a cobweb. And in the center lied the prey.

My reflex kicked my unresponsive body and I found myself jerking backwards. The small of my back colliding the wall as my instincts tried desperately to salvage me. After years, no, seconds? Month? My eyes started to flicker, and my brain reboot, as I took in the scene before me for the first time.

It was Uncle Phil, there was no doubt. His head was twisted to the doorway, angle awkward, I think his neck was snapped.  His eyes, dead, unmoving, lifeless, unbearably cold, bulged out of their sockets as they stared into my soul, the utter shock and dread in them could only be rivaled in the looks in my own. It was hard for me to see it, but a glint of silver betrayed the source of the weeping fluid. The carotid artery and the jugular vein. Once the most prosperous canals in Uncle Phil, now smudged in blotches of red and brown like spiled paint, they watched miserably as their invaluable goods drained from their vessels and drenched the cheap wood floor tiles.

I inched my way in, leaving the door open. An escape route. Dancing a sinuous minuet around the cobweb, I found myself face to face with the contorted figure of what was left of Uncle Phil. Other stab wounds were visible at this angle, lazily oozing blood and painting his stomach a vibrant red. Dead, dried, decayed blood caked the strips of cloth on him, apparently once being his clothes. The stench was almost unbearable. Not the blood per se, I had my fair share of blood from beatings in my life, the iron taste was almost familiar. Instead, cadaver reeked of alcohol. Why am I not surprised? This just proved my hypothesis that vodka constitutes 90% of this man’s body fluid. I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

It was strange. After the initial surprise at finding a home-turned-crime-scene, I was able to look at the cadaver in total calmness. “You’re just shock-numbed,” I thought out loud in a mutter, “You’re not an apathic monster.” After all, Uncle Phil had provided me with shelter, was my legal guardian granted by will, and… and…. And what?

The epiphany crashed into me like a runaway train. Without the stress of expensive vodka, my seven-eleven wage began to seem mighty impressive. And a whole two room flat all to myself? Bless all the gods in heaven!

I felt the corners of my mouth twitching upwards once more, and couldn’t suppress a sudden burst of merriment. Considering all things, this would probably cut the list for the top three things I wished to come home to.

What a lovely surprise.