He staggered towards the kitchen.
Empty, it did not bear any signs of inhabitation, except intricately woven cobwebs looming from the high ceiling like an ominous oracle- “Whoever sets foot inside will be trapped”
Determined, he set out in his search for he knew what he needed was right here. How many times had he seen her uncorking the bottle and contemplating its contents? How many times had she shoved it into his face in manic rage?
The little ink-blue bottle.
It had been her grandmother’s. “It runs in the family”, she had laughed.
Those words ringed like a deafening roar.
Oh! He had no qualms in believing her, in fact that was one of the few things in which he never questioned her judgement.
But who would have thought her carelessly thrown statement would be fulfilled like a prophecy. And that too by him, of all people?
Now desperate, he fiddled with the desks and drawers, as quickly as possible.
Photographs, a moth eaten diary, a box full of old family heirlooms. He opened it, and there it was- amidst a necklace, rings, some other odd jewelry and trinkets- just as he remembered-
An ancient ink blue bottle with faded lettering bearing the words- Prussic Acid.
He sedated his raging soul with cyanide.
His mortality was just a casualty.