Short Story: Fragility Part 4

This is part of a serial, find the previous parts here.

It must have been hours before Chris finally woke up, sprawled face down on the kitchen floor. His vision was swimming, and he hadn’t even attempted to move yet. He let out a groan and slowly rolled over to his back. Now this seems familiar, he thought, staring up at the ceiling. He brought his hand up and felt along the front of his scalp. This time when he drew back his hand there was blood. A good deal of it was dried already, but the simple act of touching the wound caused blood to start flowing again. He winced.

As he lay on the linoleum, he listened for signs of his attacker. All was silent. He felt confused; his thinking muddled. He must have been hit harder than he thought.

He eased up onto his elbows, taking it nice and slow. He pushed up from the floor and made it to his knees where he paused for several minutes. Using the counter he managed to make it to a standing position, only to find himself leaning over the counter to keep from falling back down. After great effort, he made his way to the bathroom to examine his head. There was even more blood than he had imagined caked into his hair, crusted onto his forehead, and down his left cheek.

He probably needed to see a doctor, but first he needed to call the police and have them start tracking down Pat. He pulled out his cell phone and made the call. After a short but agonizingly detailed conversation with a dispatcher, he was informed that they would send someone right over.

He lumbered into the living room and collapsed onto the couch. Nausea overwhelmed him, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t from his head wound this time. Chris’s eyes grew heavy. He probably shouldn’t sleep with the number of head wounds he had, but his eyes wouldn’t listen. His head began to nod as he drifted off. A pounding on the door brought him back around and caused his head to start throbbing–although he couldn’t honestly say it wasn’t doing that before.

Unlocking the deadbolt, he opened the door and let in a pair of officers–a man and a woman. He led them to the kitchen where they all took a seat at the table and Chris began to recount the events of the past couple of days. The officers listened intently, occasionally interjecting clarifying questions. When Chris finished his story, the officers exchanged a look. It seemed they were having an unspoken conversation.

The petite female officer, Torez, looked as though she was barely big enough to wear a uniform and all the equipment that accompanied it, while the male officer, Hamilton, was tall and lanky.

“Do you mind if we take a look around? See if the intruder left any clues,” Officer Torez said.

“No. I mean, no, I don’t mind,” Chris said.

“We’d like to start in Pat’s room.”

“Of course,” he said, getting up from the table. As he stood, Torez grabbed his chin and tilted his face slightly.

“Are those scratch marks on the side of your face?” she asked.

“No, that’s blood from where the guy hit me,” Chris said, slightly embarrassed that he hadn’t cleaned it up.

“Hmmm.” Torez gave Hamilton a quick glance, before letting go of his chin. “Lead the way, please.”

Chris took the officers into the hallway. “In there.” He pointed.

“You first,” Torez said.

Pushing the door open, Chris stepped into an empty room. He looked around. “This was full of Pat’s things earlier. That guy must have taken them while I was knocked out.”

Torez squatted down to the floor and examined something. She looked up at Hamilton and said, “It’s blood.” She looked over to the closet and said, “It looks like there’s some more leading over there.” Red shone on the doorknob looking like smeared fingerprints.