Was it an illusion?

The house looked normal that night, bathed in the weak glow of a nearby street lamp, with the rest of it, mostly the back yard, in half-shadow. In fact, it would have been perfectly normal to normal passers-by, but if you were to creep up to the front window, and peer through a small chink in the curtains, you would have seen and partly heard something very divergent.
The woman was lying in the corner of a dark and unknown room, while a man, with a pistol, held a torch to her pale face. The face itself was trembling heavily, the pale lips moving but nothing coming out. She was weeping, realising that she was staring her death directly in the face, her green eyes betraying the fact as they shed yet more tears, and nervously blinked. They grew wider, while the mouth opened into a silent shriek that nobody could have heard but her murderer himself, as he pulled the trigger. The pistol was especially designed by its manufacturers to muffle the sound of the shot, and, needless to say, it did its duty that night; anyone walking by at that time may have mistaken it for a cough. The deed accomplished, the murderer turned off the torch, and made his way silently out the house, and slid into the shadows like he never existed.
Whistles blew. the crowd cheered, and the tension was high. The soccer ball was kicked from one player to another, while the whole country watched from the stands, or from their television sets back home. But he had other thoughts on his mind, as he sat there, next to some middle-aged goofball who had taken the sport so seriously as to wear an attire resembling somewhat of a soccer ball.
How separate their worlds were, and how different were their intentions. As the man continued to watch the soccer ball get kicked from foot to foot, it was almost like he wasn’t concentrating in it, as if he was hypnotised by the ball itself. The whole stands seemed to him to be partly obscured by a deep, impenetrable fog, of which the occasional shout rang out. But the stadium lights: they were so dazzling, so blinding; surely they had turned it on too bright? Surely…
The ball was spinning, revealing occasional flashes of white and green. Spinning…
It was then that one voice penetrated through the fog. The sound of a long, drawn-out scream, and of the gunshot, the gunshot that sounded so much like a cough…
He jerked with a start, and started to regain his consciousness. His eyes strained, scanning the stand opposite him. A man reading, a woman cheering a team on with her presumed baby hanging on desperately to her arms, and a woman with intensely green eyes.
Green eyes. Staring right at him.
He started violently from his posture, heart beating rapidly, and scanned the other stand again, more desperately, hoping-just hoping that it had been an illusion, eyes furiously going to and fro…
To his relief, there was no such woman. Apparently.
The car sped off from the traffic lights, a little too violently perhaps, as several pedestrians and drivers shouted at him. But they hardly registered in his mind. He had been afraid of his wife, a woman that had been dead for almost two years. What had he been thinking? But, even as those thoughts rushed through his mind, he knew that he was deliberately avoiding the truth. His wife had a right to be vengeful. After what had happened…
He suddenly shut his eyes, hard, to drive it out of his mind. That was the past. It didn’t matter. He needed to look to the future…
He opened his eyes. And it immediately widened as he saw the mirror hanging above him.
A woman in the back seat, with a paper-white face and startling green eyes.
And a cruel smile on her face that betrayed the fact that she wasn’t entirely of a sane mind.
The man screamed, a loud, shrill scream, and desperately jerked the steering wheel to the right, barely avoiding the semitrailer next to him. No. It couldn’t be. She had been deceased for…
Trees flashed past him, in a seemingly never-ending blur, as he whimpered in his seat, and once more, with a willpower that surprise even him, quickly glanced back at the mirror.
Nothing.
He had quickly unbuckled his seatbelts, hands sweaty, and just managed to open his front door. The memory still fresh inside his mind, the eyes hat gleamed like a killer’s. The cruel, thin smile.
He went into his house. The terror seemed to mount up, inside him, building like an ocean wave. Shadows flashed, the wind whispered. He felt as if he was on the way to another world. Sobbing, he gripped the bookshelf next to the door, and pulled himself along, on his knees, semi conscious of something dropping from his hands…
The night was quiet. No one was about. He was completely alone and isolated, far away from any kind of help.
Slowly across the hallway…
A momentary flicker caught his eye. a movement of some sort from the window. Something seemed to be crouching there, something darker than even the night…
His hands grasped something. He gasped.
It was a pistol. No, THE pistol. How did it come to be there? Surely, it wasn’t there when he left. Surely…
And he was now in the corner of a dark and unknown room, for, due to his blind panic, he did not even bother to turn on the light. He could just barely see the switch now, so close, but in reality so far from his reach…
He then knew that the game was up. While voices whispered around him, and shadows crept, he suddenly sat up, like a dummy, with glazed and unseeing eyes and a body no longer caring what he did, and cried:
“I knew that I would get my revenge someday!”, while he laughed maniacally, a laugh that chilled the blood and shook the house to the core. His eyes did a wild dance, and his mouth curved into something resembling a sinister smile.
He then pulled the trigger, the trigger to send him into oblivion.

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