Slaughter

He continued to vigorously beat the rusted shovel against the wooden door that led to a compartment not large enough to be called a basement. Panting, and with little beads of sweat forming then tumbling down his face, the middle aged man grabbed his hand carved chair in an attempt to get the unyielding door to close. There were simply too many bodies crammed into the claustrophobic space.

He slammed the chair against the door. Finally concealing the corpses of his wife and sons, whom he had to mutilate before he could even try to fit them in the small space.
Despite the fact that the door was closed, he frantically clobbered the chair upon the now flat ground, tears streaming down his sweaty face.
The chair shattered, leaving splitters in his hands, and now he was on his knees, still banging one of the remaining chair legs. It eventually slipped from his grasp he was left there on the wooden floor, crying and on his hands and knees. He stood up and began to clean up the aftermath, pulling a round carpet over the door and then slumping into his favorite recliner. The one he’d sit in after coming home from a long day at work, his beautiful and intelligent wife would bring him the news paper and something cool to drink and his sons would go outside to play or try to be quiet as they played with their toys. He smiled at the fond memory while straightening his blood stained shirt.
He plucked the splinters from his sore, worn hands, tossing them away carelessly with a gentle flick. He hummed his favorite song while doing so. He stood once more to get a broom for the rest of the mess, when he suddenly felt something wet drop on his hand.
He looked down curiously to find a small red drop of fresh blood. His hand instinctively went to his face. A slow trickle of warm oozing blood flowed from his nose, then it began to flow more. It turned into a gush. He tried to plug his nose, but that seemed to make it worse. His breath became labored. One pant came after another until he'd sucked the last meek gulp of oxygen that he'd get from this world.
He collapsed onto the group, in a pool of his own blood. As his life faded, he heard his youngest son’s voice say, “Daddy... won’t you play with me?”