The Red Room

Flash fiction

Johnny took one last drag on his cigarette and put away the stub on the silver ashtray. On nights like this, he usually enjoyed the feel of nicotine soothing down his chest, tingling his nostrils, making his eyes water, an allergic reaction he had had since he was a teenager. Barefooted, he walked across the small room and stopped to open the wardrobe. From inside he withdrew a leather whip, a feather mask, a new set of handcuffs, a black duct tape, and a folded picture. He walked to the bed and sat on the edge, spreading these items neatly on the cool mattress. He picked the picture that bore the face of a dark skinned woman and stared at it, fingering the glossy surface. 

A knock came on the door.

It was time.

His next victim had arrived.