August sat frozen, his fork suspended mid-air, as the sound of his father's choking filled the dining room. The scrape of his chair against the hardwood floor was the only indication he had moved at all. His breath caught, shallow and sharp, as he watched Jonathan clutch at his neck, his fingers clawing at the skin, leaving deep, angry scratches that glistened under the warm light of the chandelier.
Blood spewed from Jonathan's mouth, flecks of crimson staining the pristine white tablecloth. His eyes bulged, the veins in them spider-webbed and unnaturally red, pleading wordlessly for help. The violent spasms that wracked his father's body seemed to echo in August's own chest, each desperate convulsion pulling him further into a suffocating void of disbelief.
"Jonathan!" Aurora's voice broke the silence, shrill and panicked, but August barely registered it. Time fractured, seconds stretching into eternity as his father's struggling form pitched forward onto the table with a sickening thud.
August's hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white, his palms clammy. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The metallic scent of blood filled the air, mingling with the rich aroma of the untouched roast on his plate, turning his stomach. His gaze flicked to his siblings-Victor, stiff and pale, his mouth a hard, grim line, and Rose, trembling, her chair pushed far back as if distance could shield her from the horror.
The room blurred, his vision narrowing to the still figure of his father sprawled across the table. Blood trickled from the corner of Jonathan's mouth, a vivid red trail that felt more real than anything else in the room. His mind screamed for him to act, to think, to do *something*, but his body betrayed him, rooted to the spot.
The only sound was the ragged gasp of his own breath, the chaotic pounding of his heart in his ears. He felt detached, as if watching the scene through a pane of glass, unable to break through. This couldn't be happening. Not here. Not like this.
When the silence finally fell, heavy and suffocating, August remained still, his body trembling. The reality of what he had just witnessed slammed into him like a tidal wave, and for the first time in his life, he felt utterly powerless.
Aurora's hands trembled as she fumbled with her phone, her breath coming in panicked gasps. Her voice cracked when the operator answered. "My husband-he's choking. Blood-he's coughing blood! Please, send someone!"
The operator's calm, measured tone cut through the chaos. "Ma'am, I need you to stay calm. Is he still breathing?"
Aurora's gaze darted to Jonathan, his body slumped across the table, the blood pooling beneath his face soaking into the crisp white tablecloth. His chest was eerily still. "No... no, I don't think so!" she cried.
"Help is on the way. Are you able to perform CPR?" the operator asked.
Aurora's voice faltered, but Victor moved to his father's side, tilting Jonathan's head back as instructed. August watched, paralyzed, as his brother pressed his hands against their father's chest, counting aloud, his voice a mix of desperation and anger. Rose stood frozen against the far wall, tears streaking her pale face, her hand clasped over her mouth.
The shriek of sirens pierced the heavy silence minutes later, growing louder as flashing red and blue lights filled the windows. Aurora dropped the phone and stumbled toward the front door, wrenching it open just as two paramedics rushed in, medical kits in hand.
One of the paramedics, a young woman with sharp eyes, moved straight to Jonathan. She knelt beside him, checking for a pulse while her partner prepared equipment. "No pulse," she said curtly, her gloved hands opening Jonathan's airway. "Begin compressions."
Victor stepped back, his hands bloodied and trembling, as the paramedic replaced him. The other paramedic attached a defibrillator to Jonathan's chest, the machine emitting a sharp beep as it analyzed.
Aurora hovered nearby, her voice frantic. "Is he... is he going to be okay?"
"Step back, ma'am," the paramedic said firmly but not unkindly. She turned to her partner. "Flatline. Call it."
"No!" Aurora's voice cracked, her legs buckling beneath her. Victor caught her, guiding her to a chair, but his face was pale, his jaw clenched tight.
The paramedic removed her gloves and looked up. "Time of death, 7:34 p.m."
August's knees threatened to buckle as the paramedics declared his father dead. The words struck him like a hammer, reverberating in his chest, but the room felt distant, muffled, as though he were underwater. His father's lifeless body, slumped against the blood-soaked tablecloth, was a sight he couldn't reconcile with the larger-than-life man he had always known.
He glanced around the room. His mother, Aurora, sat rigid in her chair, clutching a crumpled tissue to her lips, her gaze fixed on the paramedics as though willing them to change their verdict. Victor stood like a statue, his broad shoulders tense, his jaw a line of granite. And Rose, her small frame trembling, stared blankly at their father's empty chair, her face pale as porcelain.
When the police arrived, August barely noticed them at first. Their clipped voices and methodical movements felt like background noise. But the sound of tape being stretched across the dining room broke through the fog in his mind.
"Sir." A voice cut through the haze, drawing his attention to a tall officer standing in front of him. "Are you August Westwood?"
He blinked, nodding slowly. "Yes."
The officer's expression was professional but not unkind. "We're here to investigate the circumstances of your father's death. Can you tell me what you saw?"
August opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to speak. "He was fine-laughing, talking-and then... he just started choking. Blood came out of his mouth. He-" His voice cracked, and he looked away, swallowing the lump rising in his throat.
The officer nodded, taking notes. "Did your father eat or drink anything unusual tonight?"
August's mind raced, replaying the evening. His father's glass of wine, the plate of roasted lamb he had barely touched. The moment Jonathan's hand had shot to his throat, his eyes bulging in terror.
"I don't know," August admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
The officer nodded, her eyes scanning the room. Blood spattered the tablecloth, the chair where Jonathan had been sitting now empty. Her gaze lingered on the scratch marks on Jonathan's neck. "Did anyone touch him after he collapsed?"
Victor spoke up, his voice tight. "I tried to do CPR."
"Understood." The officer motioned for her partner, who began cordoning off the dining room with yellow tape. "We're going to need everyone to stay here and answer some questions. Please don't leave the house."
The paramedics quietly packed their equipment and exited, leaving the room feeling colder, heavier. The officers, now joined by a detective in plain clothes, began their work. The detective introduced himself, his eyes sharp and calculating.
"I'm Detective Harris. I'll be leading the investigation. First, I need everyone to stay calm. We're going to figure out what happened tonight."
When Detective Harris stepped into the room, August felt the weight of the man's presence immediately. Harris's eyes were sharp, missing nothing as they swept across the dining table, the overturned glass, the blood. He introduced himself briefly before focusing on the family.
"I understand this is a difficult time," Harris began, his tone steady but probing. "But I need to ask some questions while everything is fresh. Mr. Westwood's death appears... unusual."
August's stomach churned. *Unusual.* The word felt loaded, heavy with implications he wasn't ready to face.
Harris turned his attention to August first. "You're the son, correct? Did you notice anything odd about your father before dinner? Any signs of illness, strange behavior?"
August shook his head, trying to steady his voice. "No, he was fine. He... he was fine."
Harris nodded but didn't break eye contact, as if searching for cracks in August's composure. "What about during dinner? Did he say anything before he started choking?"
August hesitated. His father's last moments played on a loop in his mind-the way he'd laughed at a joke, reached for his wine, then froze mid-sentence, his face contorted in pain. "No," he said finally. "It just... happened so fast."
As Harris moved on to question Aurora, Victor, and Rose, August's mind wandered, replaying the scene over and over. The blood. The scratch marks on his father's neck. The way his family sat now, fractured and distant, each locked in their own private torment.
The dining room felt suffocating, the air heavy with unspoken accusations. For the first time, August wondered-not just about what had killed his father, but *who.*