Anathema

Bedevil

The last cigarette in the carton. Damn it. The pack had lasted him most of the day after spending his last ten dollars on it before head to work. He lit up. Smoke invaded his lungs and the burn took away his thoughts for a minute.

I'm proud of you, her voice rang through his head and he bit down hard on his lip.You'll live longer if you stop.

He breathed in another quick puff. Rain puddles splashed under his feet as he walked to his car with the loose bumper from a tipsy run in with a tall curb. He slid into the seat and slammed the door, savoring the last inch or so of the cigarette. The key turned in the ignition and he winced at the shrieking sound the belt made in the engine.

Now we can have fifty years together, instead of twenty with your bad habits, her voice echoed again. He almost swerved off the road. Her face flashed in his mind, determined and smiling, as her fingers wrapped around the small paper box and threw it into the garbage can with gusto. The satisfaction she'd shown putting an end to his smoking, to the rest of his bad habits, was contagious. He hadn't cared about the cigarettes, only her happiness.

It's gross, Laine. He would have smiled at the memory of her honesty, had the muscles in his face not been straining to hold back tears. They blurred his vision.

"Doesn't matter," he found himself mumbling aloud. He turned onto the highway sharply. "Doesn't fucking matter." He turned to his right and lifted the empty carton. Habit forced him to glance in out of habit, knowing it was empty but desperately hoping it wouldn't be. With a burst of frustration, he threw it across the cab of the vehicle.

I'll be here for you, every step of the way. His grip tightened on the steering wheel. "So much for that idea, Aisling..." He left the highway. "Where are you now?"

He pushed open the door with a loud creak and shuffled through the pile of shoes, hers still intermingling with his on the dark hardwood floor. His gut seized.

The show he'd fallen asleep to the night before was still playing, buzzing with dialogue, but then he heard another sound. A rushing sound, a hiss from the kitchen.

What the hell? He jogged up the stairs, two by two, turning left with the stairway. Another left and he was in the living room with nothing out of the ordinary. The rushing sound was to his right and he turned to find the sound in the open kitchen.

The sink flowed at full blast, water erupting from the mounding sink of dishes and onto the floor. It coated the dark wood in a inch of water and crept towards the tips of his work boots.

He ran over, hand flying to the handle and throwing it down. "Fuck!" he yelled, flinging water droplets from his fingers.

He hadn't left the sink on. There's no way. He dashed from the kitchen towards the back bedroom, drawing his knife from his back pocket. He rushed through the bathroom and into the room. No one was there. He left through the main door and crossed the hallway, rage twisting his features. His heart beat against the bone confines of his chest and his knuckles whitened through his grip on the blade.

"Who the fuck is here!?" Laine screamed to the empty apartment. He flew down the stairs, long steps hurtling him towards the bottom landing and he flung himself at the door, ripping it open. His head pounded with the adrenaline. Rage unfolded in his center as the imagery of his love's body was dragged across the bed, as her eyes flashed over at him in panic only to extinguish with a quick hand to her throat. He growled in his throat and squinted his eyes against the bright grey sky. The sun dazzled above him like a flashlight beneath a thick blanket.

A deep breath entered his lungs and he let it out, a cough gripping him as he did so.I need a cigarette.

The dusty haired man trudged back up the stairs slowly, hand sliding listlessly along the handrail. His eyes were glued to the raising steps without focus as he banked left into the living room.