Author: Jessica Brooks
There was so much blood.
She knew there would be, in theory. But since horror films terrified her, she didn’t know just how much of it there would be.
There was blood all over her sweatpants.
Her favorite-- absolute favorite-- pair of sweatpants.
Why had she done it?
That answer had seemed clear to her before the handle of the knife made its home in her palm. Now she couldn't remember it.
There was her wedding night, lying on the kitchen floor. There was the night she became Mrs. Connor. Those cold hands were lying face-up, open and taunting her from the linoleum. In them were all the minutes spent in the marriage bed. There was the passionate, furious lovemaking followed by the calm caresses. There were the years of mediocre, obligatory, scheduled sex. There were the hands, that after two years of marriage, forgot the location of her clit. There were the hands that never dared to journey for it again.
There lying on the floor was the past seven years. She now could not remember why she had decided seven years was more than enough.
There was so much blood.
He had stopped caring. He had stopped treasuring her.
So much blood. All over her favorite sweatpants.
But he had tried. Hadn’t he? He had. He had tried. He hadn’t forgotten her birthday.
She’d never be able to wear these pants again. Then she remembered that he had, in fact, forgotten their anniversary. Were the sobs that overtook her heroin-wracked frame for the spouse she'd murdered? Or were they for the clothing she'd sullied?
The floor rose to meet her, and her face landed in warm red, which provoked her to cry more. Her first instinct was to drop the knife and wipe her face, but there was more blood on her hands. The poison leaked to her lashes, then to her eyes.
Fumbling, still weeping, she rose, feeling her way for the sink, until-- fuck! fuck fuck fuck! the knife! It bit her heel, and she limped the rest of the way to the kitchen sink in frustration and pain.
As the sound of the rushing water mingling with her gasps and wails overtook her ears, she thought how easily she could drown herself in that sink. She second-guessed her decision almost immediately--drowning seemed too harsh a way to go.
But at least there’s no blood.
When she finally rose and recovered the use of her eyes, she saw the snow falling in such a smooth, lilting pattern onto the balcony, a kind of beauty that seemed so out of place in the horrid mess her life had become. Walking heavy on her left foot, tiptoeing on her right to keep pressure off her still-bleeding heel, she opened the glass doors with a reverence she’d never known.
She stood still for a moment, allowing the cold air to assault her exposed arms. The violence felt like love. As she looked over her shoulder, she cringed to see the patterned trail of crimson that she’d tracked all over the brand-new plush carpet.
Shivers replaced her sobs as the crying subsided. The upper half of her body was so cold, but the lower half of it was so warm she felt she’d burn. The blood should have grown cold by now but she felt it getting hotter...and hotter...and hotter…
She stepped out of the stained cocoon and tossed it over the balcony. She thought she heard herself laugh as she did so.
The more flakes of powdered sugar fell from the sky, the more she realized that love it or hate it, her whole life was lying in a pool of blood in the kitchen they’d shared, dead by her hand.
The front door opened.
“Marni?”
There was her shitty fucking excuse for a lover. He was only two doors down, of course he had heard the screams. He hadn’t seen yet.
There was a pause so long, it could have lasted seven years.
“Marni.”
Now, he’d seen it.
He was calling to her, but the pile of fabric on the sidewalk far below was calling as well.
She chose to follow the sweatpants.