She closed her eyes.
A teardrop was balanced neatly upon her wet lashes. As she angrily stomped her foot, the tears clinging stubbornly to her lashes tumbled down her face in gay abandon, past her pale cheeks, past her long, flowing hair, and landed into her now damp dress, which had been a gift from her husband...or should she call him that?
Thinking this, she clutched her face in her hands, losing her patience, and cried hysterically, stomping her feet up and down. She gasped and forced herself to stop crying, regaining her strange calmness.
She opened her eyes, taking a moment to adjust to the dimly lit room, now mixed with a sinister, almost metallic smell. She ran her hand shakily over her usually smooth, but now, wrinkled forehead, almost as if trying to even out the creases set deep within her skin. She limply tried to finger-comb her hair, scattered all over her (usually) peaceful parlor. Absentmindedly she chewed on her bottom lip, then said out loud to no one in particular (or so it seemed) :
"My marriage is over."
There was a muffled cry at this. Hearing it, she once again angrily stomped her foot. She inspected her right hand, looking blankly at the gold and white ring adorning her finger. She twirled it around and around in her hand, remembering how, twenty seven years ago, her husband, well, now ex-husband, had gone down on one knee, prior to slipping it onto her bony finger. She remembered how she'd blushed, how he couldn't stop smiling. How he had vowed to love her, to cherish her, to take care of her. Were they just hollow words? Empty promises, holding no meaning whatsoever? Maniacally she stomped her feet, chuckling darkly, thinking of all the lies, her husband, well, now ex-husband, must have told her, while he was busy spinning a romantic tale with some other wretched woman. How he must have lied to her, day in and day out, while she unsuspectingly woke up next to him every morning, how she faithfully slept next to him every night, until today morning, when she had found a picture of this other woman in his wallet, with her phone number and a heart (what where they, teenagers?) scribbled at the back.
Recalling that awful moment, she stomped her foot once more and she took off her ring. Angrily she hurled it to the wall, from where it bounced off, and fell beneath her feet, striking against the metal of her knife, before landing squarely in the pool of her husband, well, now dead husband's blood.
Calmly she removed the knife wedged between her toes from her husband's, well, dead husband's heart, not bothering to cut open the ropes tying him.
She reached into her late husband's pocket and fished out his wallet, looking at the dreaded picture. She carefully scanned the picture, making sure she memorized it. Her lips twisted into an ugly smile. Pocketing the bloody knife, she kissed the man she loved for the last time, before hurrying out of the door.
She had another job to do.
A teardrop was balanced neatly upon her wet lashes. As she angrily stomped her foot, the tears clinging stubbornly to her lashes tumbled down her face in gay abandon, past her pale cheeks, past her long, flowing hair, and landed into her now damp dress, which had been a gift from her husband...or should she call him that?
Thinking this, she clutched her face in her hands, losing her patience, and cried hysterically, stomping her feet up and down. She gasped and forced herself to stop crying, regaining her strange calmness.
She opened her eyes, taking a moment to adjust to the dimly lit room, now mixed with a sinister, almost metallic smell. She ran her hand shakily over her usually smooth, but now, wrinkled forehead, almost as if trying to even out the creases set deep within her skin. She limply tried to finger-comb her hair, scattered all over her (usually) peaceful parlor. Absentmindedly she chewed on her bottom lip, then said out loud to no one in particular (or so it seemed) :
"My marriage is over."
There was a muffled cry at this. Hearing it, she once again angrily stomped her foot. She inspected her right hand, looking blankly at the gold and white ring adorning her finger. She twirled it around and around in her hand, remembering how, twenty seven years ago, her husband, well, now ex-husband, had gone down on one knee, prior to slipping it onto her bony finger. She remembered how she'd blushed, how he couldn't stop smiling. How he had vowed to love her, to cherish her, to take care of her. Were they just hollow words? Empty promises, holding no meaning whatsoever? Maniacally she stomped her feet, chuckling darkly, thinking of all the lies, her husband, well, now ex-husband, must have told her, while he was busy spinning a romantic tale with some other wretched woman. How he must have lied to her, day in and day out, while she unsuspectingly woke up next to him every morning, how she faithfully slept next to him every night, until today morning, when she had found a picture of this other woman in his wallet, with her phone number and a heart (what where they, teenagers?) scribbled at the back.
Recalling that awful moment, she stomped her foot once more and she took off her ring. Angrily she hurled it to the wall, from where it bounced off, and fell beneath her feet, striking against the metal of her knife, before landing squarely in the pool of her husband, well, now dead husband's blood.
Calmly she removed the knife wedged between her toes from her husband's, well, dead husband's heart, not bothering to cut open the ropes tying him.
She reached into her late husband's pocket and fished out his wallet, looking at the dreaded picture. She carefully scanned the picture, making sure she memorized it. Her lips twisted into an ugly smile. Pocketing the bloody knife, she kissed the man she loved for the last time, before hurrying out of the door.
She had another job to do.
That escalated at 567 escalates per second...
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