Secret Message

Broken

The rain fell heavily upon the small town. He had already gone to bed for the night. "How about now?" his mother whispered to her husband. He silently answered his wife with a nod.

Together they stood, migrating in to the kitchen like birds heading south in the winter. "Are you sure we should?" she ranted. "What if he wakes before we finish?" Her words were met with a silent look from the lanky man beside her. Mumbling beneath his breath a few words, he spoke. "Time is not on our side, my dear, nor has it ever been." 

She stood, staring at the dark figure just inchest away in front of her, only able to make out his white toothy grin as she kept her focus on what would have been his light blue eyes, filled with umpteen, cruel intentions. Would it have not been for all their problems, this would not have to happen.

The mother of one reacher in to a drawer, tugging out the first sharp thing she could find; an unused steak knife. You could clearly see that dark look stricken across her face as she turned to look toward her husband. He stood, beginning to bound up the stairs to their sons room where she believed he was fast asleep.

Opening their sons room door, they crept in like two mice; cloaked by the darkness. She kept her eyes glued to his weak back, waiting for the time to pounce. He stopped beside the bed almost like a robot.; emotionless and obedient. Stopping not too far behind him, she dug the knife as far in to his collar as far and hard as possible; slapping a hand over his split lips, disgusting and cracked lips. Eyes bulged as she plunged the knife in and out, his tiny, almost silent cries ringing out, going unheard. 

This was something she had never felt before. Feelings of relief, stress being let go; years of being subdued by his disgraceful behaviour. Her lips stretched out into an ugly smirk as she continued, watching as he crumbled down on to the floor almost silently within the numb night.

Over and over again in her head she watched it; his weak fight, his weak struggle for survival. He hadn't tried, but he knew he didn't want to die yet. She told herself he deserved it over, and over, and over again. He knew he had it coming sooner or later.

Dropping the bloodied knife, now dull, she stepped over the puddle of death lying on the floor before her; his blood seeping in to the white carpet underneath his limp body.

She ran her fingers over he bruised, beaten arms. Her body as fragile as thousand year old porcelain dolls; as pale and white as a dead bodies. The son, lying there almost as motionless as her husband. Stretching out her cold, bloodied hand, she caressed his face. Cold; ice cold.

She let out her blood curling scream of agon, sobbing wildly, uncontrollably as she buckled to the floor in a heap of dreadful sorrow.

He had been murdered by the bastard she wishes she had never called her husband. 

Frantically, looking around, she could see the knife on the floor. Crawling over desperately, she fumbled over the corpse of her husband, she reached for it,wiping her face with her oppositely bloodied hand. 

She thrust it deep.

She thrust it deep in to herself so fast, she became dizzy; spitting up dark droplets of blood, choking on her own problems.

She collapsed across his lifeless body, going limp as a red river leaked from her.

Lifeless; cold and dead.