The Perfect Excuse
Bright, bloody liquid trickled from her hand down her freckled forearm in a steady stream. It was cooler than she had expected. And thinner. Not that she’d really given it much thought. This was more impulsive; a spur of the moment action. Somewhere in the depths of her despair, she had come across the convoluted conclusion that it might satisfy her rage, soothe her. It hadn’t. Of course, that was to be expected.
The knife, carefully selected from the wooden block, that she’d been using mere moments earlier was laying on the terracotta tiles, just over to her left. She only noticed it there now because somewhere off in the distance, a cloud had shifted, drifted, blown away by the autumn breeze, unveiling a ray of sun that perfectly—so perfectly you’d think it was planned—illuminated the sharp, red-streaked blade through the window above the sink. A few stray splotches attempted to blend in with the clay-colored floor. A crimson camouflage.
She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. He was perfectly still, staring back at her with a look of . . . what? She couldn’t quite put her tremulous finger on it. Confusion? Annoyance? Loathing? Whatever it was, it seemed permanent. Like his face might remain like that for the rest of her life. Perhaps for eternity. Is this how she’d be forced to remember him? It was unbearably gruesome to contemplate. At least she would have their old photographs. Although, he rarely expressed more than a look of mild disdain in those as well. That was just him.
She loved him so much. She had given him everything: the best years of her life, her virginity, her soul, her hopes, dreams, respect, her love, her admiration. Where had things gone so wrong? It couldn’t have been when they first met and she’d promised him he’d be the only man to ever touch her. Nor could it have been on their third wedding anniversary when she’d presented him with the hickory leather briefcase he’d been drooling over. And it definitely couldn’t have been last month when she’d bought that satin . . .