She steps into the flat and closes the door behind her, completely exhausted after a long day's work at the lab.
"I'm home!"
No response.
"Martin? Honey, I'm home!"
Silence. How strange, since he usually rushes to greet her, shower her with kisses, and pamper her in every way possible. This time, absolutely nothing.
Right. He must be hiding. He's always so full of surprises! She climbs up the stairs to check.
"Martin! I'm here! Where are you? You owe me a hug, remember?"
Silence.
Tiptoeing through the hallway, listening for even the slightest sound, a breath, a whisper, anything, she cranes her neck around a doorframe and peeks into the bedroom.
The bed is perfectly made, not a single wrinkle, bump, or fiber protruding from its assigned place. Typical Martin.
She continues down the hallway. She remembers that Martin is exceptional at hiding himself; he had often done so when he attempted to pass the flight test. He'd hide in the cupboard, under his bed, in the attic, wherever he could to prevent his parents from asking him how he did and shouting at him for wasting money in futile pursuits.
She steps into the bathroom, flicks the light switch, and finds herself speechless for a full three seconds.
The first thing she sees is the very man she was looking for, lying on the bathroom floor, head and neck rolled to one side and propped up by the toilet. She runs over, takes his right hand, pries the blade from between his fingers, and places two fingers on his wrist. She feels a slow, steady pulse. Definitely unconscious. She then picks up his bloodied left wrist and notes three distinct sources from which blood was flowing down his lower arm.
With shaky hands, she fumbles her pocket for her cell phone and dials the three magic digits.
After speaking to the emergency response personnel, she looks down at her boyfriend's strikingly handsome face, only wondering what could have possibly influenced his actions this time. She runs her fingers through Martin's ginger locks.
"Martin…not again..."