I didn't mean to kill her.
It just happened.
The blade, out of the knife block, glistening in the television light, plunging into the depths of her perfectly tanned neck.
Her hair the paintbrush and blood the paint, my hand was instantly covered, a horrible stain of red. Trembling I picked up the bear-skin rug from in front of our couch and wrapped it around her now slightly blue, spasming body. My spine felt like jelly, my skull like ice. She was gone, I had done it, freed myself from the years of constant torture.
'No more' I smiled to myself.
I had loved her and hated her, but got almost too much joy out of swinging the rusty hatchet at her body. Blood squirted all over the beautiful shag-pile rugs, overly polished floors and subtle cream walls. The mahogany coffee table withstood most of the swings but as I took the left leg off it collapsed. Whether or not under the weight or the force of my blows, it made a bang like that of a firework going off in a metal barrel. That was sure to wake the neighbors.
Reaching around the drawer I find a Cuban cigar, one of Celia's, and light it with a safety match. walking into the garage I smack the door Into one of our matching Alfa Romeos. Red knife in hand I pry open the fuel tank, insert a pipe and begin siphoning the fuel out. Because of its full tank, the fuel doesn't stop by the garage but continues down the connecting stairs into the lounge and kitchen. Mission complete, I swagger back to the lounge, leaning forward and placing my lips on Celia's cold forehead I whisper past the cigar:
"Love you, Bitch."
The house is gone but a frame by the time the Cuban Havana hits the floor.
I nailed the door shut for a reason.
