A Small Story In a Small Journal

The Devil's Palm

She was married to him. She had said the words and he had held her hand as she watched the silver band slip across the length of her finger.

She had stood infront of him in a dress that tumbled down her legs and swiftly wrapped around her sides and shoulders.

At that time, a smile found her lips.

Now, she watches his body asleep beside her. She sat up in bed hours ago, unable to sleep comfortably. She now stares down at the useless lump in the covers over the bed. She stares at the head of hair peeking over the top, just below a pillow.

Her facial expression rested in a hateful one, twitching every so often when a thought crossed her. Good thoughts, bad thoughts, or just thoughts.

She fantasized about taking her hands and wrapping them around his neck, only to take them away from a corpse and watch a bruiske form where the ring had been. She dreamed about taking the pillow he so foolishly slipped off of and holding it down on his features until she deemed it safe.

Her lips tugged at the thought of watching her ring fall down, down, down, the drain of a sink. Her nails found themselves drumming happily against her knee when she imagined the sound of the disposal beating and hacking away at the small band.

She hated him.

But it was no one sided emotion, the man beside her had the same cold thoughts when their positions were swapped. When he lie awake on his side, staring across at the details of her face. The way her nose looked and how her eyes and lips seemed so comfortable in sleep.

In the morning, they stand in silence as they both make individual meals to start the day. They repeatedly send each other looks that no other would survive. If looks killed, this couple would be very satisfied.

Even though they daydreamed about the utensils in their hands finding rest in the other's skin, they still sit beside each other.

They still go through the grueling process of holding the other's hand and brushing a thumb over the rings on their alleged lover's hand.

And slowly, she began to relax. He didn't care nor mind. Her eyes found their tangled hands and shifted hers to his wrist.

And then she took his hand. She lifted it up and turned it over, observing his empty palm and letting out the most discreet, soft, and defeated breath. She didn't have time to think twice, and she felt skin brush the surface of her lips. And so she had kissed the devil's palm.

The arsonistic kind of hate that burned through her chest made no subtle appearance through the expressions on her face. She hated him. But even if that fire was bigger than herself, it didnt exactly overpower how her stomach stopped twisting and heaving when he held her.

She couldn't ignore how she loved sleeping in the bed with him next to her, she hated it. She hated that all she wanted to do was watch him fall with crimson painting the outside of his skin, yet she couldn't bring herself to do it because she loved him.

While he remain in shock from the sudden movement and gift to his hand, he watched her in thought. He could see a settling scowl on her face, giving him no doubt that she still returned his hate.

But, his shoulders seemed to relax. He felt a little more inclined to eat his food than to shove it away and walk off. He felt her shift. She crossed her legs and took her hand away from him, placing both on the outside of her plate. She took one hand and began to pick away slowly at the different foods she'd prepared for herself.

It took a while, but as she neared being halfway done, she felt his hand gently slide into her palm again.