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Hello friends! I was up before this sun this morning and now I have to go down with it. I will add my words (or put them in another post since I have anxiety about messing up my inlinkz) in the morning. I promise you'll be horrified. Thank you for writing with me! You make me better <3
She knew he was dead by the blood on her hands and the smile on her face. She would have wept, but she couldn’t give him the satisfaction, she couldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that she still cared for him, somewhere deep down in the caverns of her broken heart. She still cared, though she didn’t know why.
She put the knife in the sink and rolled him on his side. The blood was spreading all over the floor like a slow motion mistake, like the time she spilled juice and ran red under the table. He had helped her clean it up but had used the blue scarf her mother had made for her and ruined it, ruined it. He bought her a new one but it was wool and she broke out in hives and cried and cried. He didn’t understand why, he couldn’t understand.
She took off his clothing, piece by piece. Each thing defining him as the man she knew. Bowtie and glasses, wallet and watch. She carefully cleaned him. She remembered this part from her father, the taking apart and putting back together. The allusion of wholeness as she filled him with scraps and sawdust. The whole process would take days, maybe weeks. But she would do it, she would save him from the stench and decay, she would save him from himself.
She called his boss and let him know he was taking leave. She called his mother and told her they had moved and not to come visit. She called his friends and wept, saying that he was gone. He was, in a way. In the way she wanted.
She liked to imagine that love was the color of his blood, spilled as carelessly as her morning coffee. She like to imagine that from his kitchen chair he could hear her talk and really listen. She liked to imagine that the stain on the kitchen tile was from the blue scarfed juice, and that he had been perfect enough to know the difference between a rag and her memories.
short, short, short. I didn't have anything else to add. I think I'm feeling better ;)