I’m sitting naked on the kitchen floor staring into the eyes of a dead woman.
She’s beautiful, this woman. Skin of alabaster peppered with tiny brown freckles. Bright waves of fire flow freely from her scalp and caress her face. Her eyes have lost whatever luster they possessed, though. They are now a dull, cloudy green.
Dry olive skin. Murky brown eyes. Limp brown hair. That is what my husband sees when I greet him. Is that it? Is it just her beauty that he wishes to possess? To dominate? To claim? This pale thing with firey hair and dull, cloudy green eyes? I look at her and I want to ask, "Is that what he wants?"
She just stares right back at me.
I can’t take her eyes. Those dead, dreary emerald eyes. I want to close them. I look away instead. Put my eyes on my husband, but he’s already on the move. He’s standing, weaving back and forth, spent from sexual exertion. He steps over the dead girl. Takes off his bloodied shirt. Tosses it to the ground like the floor is his hamper. I hear the distinct sounds of the shower being turned on.
Alone with her for the first time, I can’t help but be fascinated by this woman. What was it about her that made my husband crave her so? What was it about her that made him lose his usual steely resolve and SNAP and bring this mess into our home? He's never done this--brought another woman into our home. She must be special. What is it about her?
What does she have that I don’t have?
I crawl to her, naked, covered in her blood on my hands and knees. She is on her side, lips slightly parted as if beckoning me to kiss her. I wonder how her lips taste. Are they as sweet as the heart-shaped cherries they resemble? Is that why he prefered her over me? Because my lips are thin and blend into my face. I wonder how she smells. Does she still smell like the soap from her shower this morning? Does she smell like death? Is that the smell that turns him on?
I brush her hair aside; tuck a few strands behind her ear. Expose the smooth column of her neck. I place both hands on either side of her head. Lower my nose to her neck.
I just want to smell her. I don’t know why.
This is how my husband finds me: naked, crouched over the body of a dead woman, covered in blood. A flash of terror runs through me because I can see how much this turns him on and it scares me. Especially when that smile returns. He smiles because he thinks I like it. That I like this.
I back away from the body slowly, disappointed that I never got to smell her scent. Never got to inhale her essence. Never got the chance to possess her the way my husband possessed her.
He is still tracking blood all over the goddamn floor. That seems to bother only me. Because now he's stroking himself and coming at me. Stroking himself with blood and cum and I know he wants me again. As a Good Wife it is my duty to fulfil his needs. And damn it, I am a Good Wife, but not again.
I stand completely stripped. Nothing at all to arm myself with. Protect myself with.
I hop over the dead girl and slip in her blood. I land flat on my ass and he laughs at me. I am on the floor covered in another woman's blood, and my husband is stroking himself, laughing at me.
No. Not tonight.
I scramble to get up but there's no need. He's sated. Not yet fully erect. He thinks I'm scared and that's helping but I'm anything but.
There's a frying pan on top of the stove. He reads my mind. Knows what I'm about to do and lunges. Grabs me by the throat.
The door bell rings.
He mouth forms into this sick twisted grin and he lets me go. I cough and choke and spit in the sink into the pink bubbly mess of my ruined silk dress.
I watch his eyes go wild as they search the room. For the first time he notices the mess he's made. The shitstorm that he has created. Blood covers nearly every surface of the kitchen. It's splattered on the walls. There are pools of it on the floor. And not to mention his poor wife was covered in it from head to toe.
The doorbell rings again and I smile.
"Aren't you going to answer it, honey?"
He gives me this look like he wants to backhand me. I want him to. I want him to give me something other than occassional gunts over dinner and being bent over and fucked while covered in another woman's blood.
Some part of me knew he killed them. That he didn't just carve them up a bit then let them go. But he's never brought one home. I want to know what was it about this one that makes her so special.
He doesn't give me the chance.
The doorbell rings. And he's standing there still stroking himself with blood and cum and staring around stupidly at the mess he's made.
The doorbell rings again.
My husband's back is to me. I gently take the frying pan off the stove. Lift it over my head...