He's just sitting there.
Waiting.
Two bottles, too many.
Thoughts saturated,
In anger.
Whiskey vapours flood,
Setting the atmosphere.
He's just sitting there.
Waiting.
Lights all out.
Darkness feeding him.
Quenched with hate.
Sits in silence.
The minute hand,
The old clock,
Counting down.
He's just sitting there.
Waiting.
Waiting for footsteps.
They will arrive soon.
He's just sitting there.
Waiting.
He hears her heels.
The hooves trot closer.
Her key scratches,
Find its home.
He's just standing there.
Waiting.
Figure fills the doorway.
She looks so small,
So innocently fragile,
As she presses,
The door gently shut.
His hands are shaking.
Blood burning up.
She turns, reaches,
For the light switch.
He lunges forwards.
Blank with fury.
His hands hit,
Into her throat.
She tried a scream.
He was too quick.
Slams her back hard,
Maintaining grip.
Her head forced,
Into the wall.
The plaster cracks,
Cradels her head.
His hands tighten.
Constricting.
Her skin so fair and soft.
Her neck so brittle.
She kicks her legs.
Panic lets them buckle.
Her hands everywhere.
Scratching, hitting,
Helpless.
He stares into her.
Wide eyes scrambling.
He watches her try,
To breathe, to live.
It's too late now.
He watches the veins,
Sprint across her face.
Eyes shooting red.
A bloody supernova.
Then they roll back.
She's not there.
His hands still firm,
Around her throat.
His fingers spring back,
Leaving her to slide,
Down the helpful wall.
He's just standing there.
Laughing.
