Too Short For Words

Housewife

You stood there in the middle of it all: an upturned house, a stoic expression, a bleeding stranger. It felt normal to you - the knife in your hands doing what was right, what was just. Then in another part of your consciousness, you were screaming, "What in the bloody hell was wrong with me?"

It all started one morning: the smell of bread filled your nostrils, striking your stomach with hunger pangs. You got up, slightly stiffening, but with a mind tuned to work - like a machine.

You were constantly thinking.

Thinking about dinner. 

Thinking about the kids.

Thinking about a warm greeting.

Thinking about the laundry.

Thinking about how to keep him healthy.

Thinking because you needed him. The breadwinner. The man. Your husband.

You watched him that night, staring out at those friendly neighbours again. 

"They seem a bit...different wouldn't you say?" 

You could care less about the Johnsons. They were just another average family from a broken European country. 

Or was it? 

They hardly ever talked with you, nor anyone for that matter. You felt they could be great friends - instead, they looked wary whenever you approached. Why did they do that?  Maybe...maybe there was something different. Something...

Sinister.

All that talk about secrecy and the reds just hiding in places you'd never expect. You shouldn't really be thinking about it, but you couldn't bear to get it out of your head. Just like how being a housewife was the pinnacle of life; it was all wired to your brain. And now you were wired to feel unsafe, to feel suspicious of those next-door neighbours, to feel obliged to peek at them whenever they left the house.

It was all in your head.

But of course, you didn't know that. You just believed what you were told: follow what the men said. It was only truth that came from their mouths. That man on the black and white TV, his pressed suit and serious expression - that man was a leader.

Back to routine now, you thought to yourself. You ironed shirts, sweep the broom, carefully peek out the window at the Johnsons, start hanging laundry, carefully peek out the other window at the Johnsons, wash the dishes, carefully peek out the door window at the Johnsons, eat lunch, enjoy a cup of tea while carefully peeking out the window at the Johnsons, welcome your husband home, take one last look over at the Johnsons before you went to bed. 

Every single day for a week.

The Johnsons.

Chores. 

Him.

The Johnsons.

The kids.

Lunch.

The Johnsons.

You had enough.

And just as you peek out, once more, just to confirm that nothing was wrong with them.

You spot it.

The flash of that small brown parcel being passed from mailman to wife.

And you squirm, a ticklish feeling, a sense of honour. You caught them. You caught them good.

That afternoon, you became enraged with patriotism. A strange, weird feeling as your fingers grip hold of the knife.

And there you are, holding it behind your back as you walk past their flowerbeds and neatly arranged pots and plants.

Doorbell.

A woman appears in front of you.

"Mrs. Holton? It's so rare to see you this evening - how are you doing?"

Without another word, you take out the knife and stab her in the neck, and she falls. You push past her into the living, and you see the parcel, sitting idle on the wooden table.

The parcel.

You slash it open.

What?

A box of varied biscuits, chocolates. 

What?

The husband walks in from the kitchen, blood splattered all over your apron. His eyes widen slowly.

"M-Mrs. Holton? What are you-"

It's too late.

You slash him too.

And there you are, expressionless. Just as before.

You hope you were right.

You weren't.