( CW ) ( LAST SENTENCE ) And then he proceeded to lock the door , hoping that no one would ever open it again .

The job was killing him. His only release was the glass of wine he allowed himself at the end of the day, which for him was far too late in his opinion. He walked home in the early hours of the morning, wishing that he could have got out of there earlier. 
 
 He unlocked the front door of his house, and found a picture that would put a crime scene to shame. Footprints drenched in sickly magenta blood, and a corpse laying still in the kitchen. His wife, he quickly figured out, and reached into the depths of her chest to retrieve the knife lodged in her rib cage. 
 
 He walked upstairs slowly, so as to not disturb his intruder. He knew that whoever was there had n't left, and figured that they were in his bedroom. The footprints agreed, and led him to the door. He opened it and found himself face to face with the man. He wore a plain white tank top and baggy jeans. His face was covered in drops of blood, and he had a look on his face that defined the term surprised. 
 
 Three stabs in the heart took care of him. One for trespassing, two for the damages, and three for his lovely deceased wife. He dragged the lifeless body of the attacker into the closet and went back downstairs. He said goodbye to his wife, and closed the front door. 
 
 He went back to the closet, and sat next to his attacker. Murderer to murderer, they lay there. One dead by the hand of the other. Unable to deal with the grief he'd experienced, he gave himself two slashes on the wrists, one for his wife, two for the man. He then reached up, hands violently shaking. 
 
 Though he knew it was in vain, he then he proceeded to lock the door, hoping that no one would ever open it again.
