Again

153 6 5

The bright afternoon sun rays streak across the room, leaving long shadows in their wake. The woman, years older than her body proclaims, is wiping the already spotless kitchen counter. Around her, the normally white kitchen is splashed with ranging tints and shades of sunlight. She liked to think of it like the last epic struggle before the final inevitable end arrives. It was her favourite time of day.

Her thoughts about the final end brought him into her mind. Her oblivious husband. What she liked most about him, well most days anyway, was his uncanny ability to miss the obvious. It’s like he went through life blind.

For example, he wouldn't notice the store name or the colour of the car parked next to his. He wouldn't notice if she moved the furniture around or repaint their entire house.

She looks down at the sparkling black kitchen counter, running the cloth over the surface again. Behind her, the big pot was boiling softly. In her other hand is a glass if dark red wine. She glances at the nearly empty bottle beside the fridge.

She should get rid of the evidence. A sinister chuckle escapes her mouth. She could forgive him for all his faults, save one. In his oblivious world, he never dreamed that he was the only unperceptive fool.

The wine glass in her hand starts to crack. Dark wine was leaking through the spider-web cracks and was dripping from her wrist unto the smooth surface. She stares at it and does nothing as the memory assaults her. It had been the determining factor. The one and only thing she needed.

The only reaction from her is her tightening grip. Glass shards cut deep into the flesh of her palm, the rest showering to the counter and floor. She does not flinch.

He had gone too far. He made the ultimate mistake, the unforgivable action. It was both his salvation and damnation. He never knew.

She walks to the sink and runs the tap. This was her price. Broken skin. Broken heart. Broken soul. But she will rise again. She is not dead yet. Her new life awaits. She made sure.

Another bloody hand and broken glass stirs in her memory. It was her favourite. It was the reason she only drank red wine. The dark, heavy taste sends thrills through her. Even in memory, it pulls at her. Do it again. It will be better. It was better.

She shudders out of the delicious memory. Still holding her bleeding hand under the water, she mercilessly rips out every shard. She barely feels the pain. She has been so many people and done so many things, this was nothing. Uneventful, unspectacular. Almost a boring, sort of every day activity.

She picks up a piece of glass, unusually shape among the rest. This piece. This piece will be his. Her blood was already dry on its surface.

Done with her hand, she glances at the wall clock. She smiles and licks her lips. She had better clean up; the time to begin again will be here soon. And she will serve him her past. She could hardly wait.

AgainRead this story for FREE!