Chris Benoit Is Sore and Depressed and Symptoming on his Front Porch and if He Opens the Door to his Home He Will Not Come Out Alive

A small rectangular keypad, no bigger than a pack of cigarettes, was attached to a brick in the stone pillar on the right side of the driveway. Chris Benoit shifted the duffel bag on his shoulder, and punched in his six-digit passcode. The lock on the gate buzzed open, the loud mechanized drone disturbing that quiet stillness that hung heavy in the air.

The big gate swung slowly open and Chris Benoit started walking the 60 yards to his front door. The air was warm and a slight breeze blew through the front yard. Chris Benoit sniffed the air. He could smell the rain coming. His body knew it too, and he could feel the moisture in his stiff, creaky joints. He would be sore tomorrow. The aches were always worse when it rained. He looked up towards the sky. The half moon was partially hidden behind a cloud, and there were no stars.
The windows of the house were dark. All the lights were off, except for the light on the front porch. This light was on for a reason. Nancy left it on, she knew he was going to try and make it home tonight instead of spending another night alone, laying on his back, staring at another hotel ceiling. The light made him forget the aches and pains, forget that it was four in the morning and he hadn’t slept yet. Nancy left it on because she knew. She knew, and she cared. Benoit shook his head slightly. God, he loved that woman, and he missed her so much sometimes. He was glad to be home.
Once his shoes touched the white-painted wooden stairs, every good feeling he had vanished from his mind, every happy memory evaporated into nothing. Chris Benoit climbed the stairs and stood in the center of the porch, staring at the bright white lightbulb inside of the light fixture mounted next to his front door. Chris Benoit stared at the only light in the house that was on, and he remembered that it was 4:00 in the morning and he was exhausted and sore and alone.
He rubbed his face with his hands. He just needed a little fucking sleep. He pulled open the screen door, balancing it open with the blue duffel bag resting on his left thigh. Benoit reached into the pocket of his black leather jacket, found his keychain, and felt around for the front door key. When he found it, he pulled the chain out of his pocket and held the key up to the light, making sure it was the right one. He put the key in the lock and grabbed the iron door handle, pushing his shoulder hard into the thick wooden door. The big front door swung open and Chris Benoit was home. He stepped into the house and shut the door behind him.