Normally, my father would come in after a hard day's work at the local slaughterhouse and fry himself an egg and then head off to bed. But today he was running just a few hours late. He came home as usual, being burnished in his usual attire, a leather apron with specks of blood and residue of whatever had passed his blade that day. I didn't pay much attention as he fell onto the lounge, I just asked politely if he wanted me to make him his usual, but he just grunted and lit a cigar. Something was off about his features but I dismissed it as a contortion of a rough day at the slaughterhouse and went into the kitchen.
"So... Do you want your egg or not?" I shouted out.
"No that's alright," he replied. "I just want to have a chat."
I sat down beside him. The lamp dimmed and I could barely distinguishing his face and eyes from the smock and headcloth that was mandatory for all employees to wear.
"I have some bad news." said dad.
"There was an accident down at the slaughterhouse today son and I might not be welcome back anymore."
"You got layed off?"
"Something like that, anyways, the egg sounds done... Could ya go and get that plated up for me?"
I walked back into the kitchen and was about to get the egg out of the pan when the phone rang.
"Son! Don't open the door for anyone, he's gone crazy, and he killed everyone! I ran out the back just in time, please be safe!"
The line goes dead after the man in the smock tears the cord out from my hand. It was the last thing I saw before he shoved the kitchen knife in my chest.