Yo-yo

There's a harsh blinding light above you - and it's flickering, flickering in a jolting, irregular manner that is driving you insane. You want to avert your eyes from it but you can't, the nausea is causing you to restrict all movement. Even the smallest nictate evokes that sour, corrosive bile to form in your throat again. If it was to collect there once more it'd have no choice but to eternally canker away at your already raw flesh because you don't have the strength to spew it out. 
   Your arm has lost most of its feeling, instead replaced by a steady dull throbbing and an insufferable pinch from the DIY moth-eaten tourniquet still bound around your feeble joint. You yawn, every muscle in your body shaking as you strain them with the mighty intake of breath, seizing in protest. 
   God's gone now. You thought, for a fleeting moment, that he might still be holding you; but you can't feel the intense warmth of his hand any more. Layla's still here of course, embryonically coiled around the bass of the antiquated, busted sink. As you look at her you're fondly reminded of birth. Not that you remember your own, but in general - new life. You think to yourself how fitting it is that she is lain like this, to mark her rebirth into the world of opiates, theft and prostitution that looms above her now. A faeces encrusted pillow and a bleached tile bed, Jesus of the new age. 
   You remind yourself to tell God of this sardonic epoch if he ever returns. You chuckle at the notion but that causes the nausea to rush at you again, pulling your brain through your spine and flipping the room around you. You're just a dirty forgotten rag in a washing machine. 
   You feel it on your face before you taste it in your mouth, the putrid recurrence of yesterday's frugal meal. You lie there for a moment, feeling the chunks of food churning in your mouth as you choke, silently weighing up the pros and cons of death by asphyxiation against standing up. You decide that the central park subway toilets aren't where you want your soul to remain trapped if, for some inconceivable miracle, you're not going straight to hell. 
   Turning on your side you attempt to stand but gravity is twice as heavy as it normally is today, so your joints buckle underneath it all. You lie with your vomit coated cheek pressed hard against the synthetic gelid marble. Layla moves somewhere to the right of you but you're not sure where, the fall - however pathetic - caused you to move positions dramatically. The rest of the room might as well be the depths of another universe to you now, you'll never know where anything is again. Due to this adverse manoeuvre you’ll never find Layla, and you'll never find the exit; never find either salvation. 
   You rise on balled fists, knuckles taking the brunt of the increased gravity and your abused disposition. Wiping the vomit away with your sleeve you begin the daunting 5 foot crawl to Layla. You consider grabbing onto her battered Doc Martin and pulling yourself towards her (or her towards you, whichever came first), but presume it in bad form to use your girlfriend as a guide rope. Instead you squirm like a caterpillar, in a rippling convulse, into her vicinity.
   After much exertion and several close calls on the vomit front you reach her and hold her in a warm embrace; your bodies melting into one, glued together by tragic serenity. 
   As you listen to the sound of her aberrant heart palpitations you feel like survivors. Two lost children in a bomb shelter hiding from enemy shells. Two death-row inmates avoiding their judgement day. Two peas in a dingy, STI infested pod. 
   Every so often your heavy lids will part, searching for God, but somehow you know he's not coming back. Remebering the warmth and hazy clarity he inspired in you, you're overwhelmed by sadness. An agonizing stabbing occurs somewhere underneath your ribcage as you realize God will never hold you like that again. Your chest tightens and dry sobs escape your peeling lips drowning Layla in a sea of unmerited emotion. She awakes and turns to you with her purple eyelids still down, she can feel the extra gravity too. 

'What's wrong baby?' She rasps, a voice so hoarse and worn it could only ever belong to her in this concurring moment. 

'I miss God.' You whine back, spraying her face with spittle in your enthusiasm to convey to her your distress. 
   She half opens one eye, scrunching up the other as if to balance out the action. In that slit of eyeball amongst the confusion you can see a life of broken promises and lost loves - a mess of teenage angst. In yours she can see a violent thirst and a final dysphoria that will soon belong to her. She parts her thin lips and they quaver as she inhales the sufficient oxygen needed to speak; 

'God will come back, you still have his yo-yo' 

Shadow

He always sat with his back to me. In the corner booth left of the stage, he was always facing that stage despite the fact there was never anything to see there. It was eternally empty in a way that inspired excitement, as if the show was about to begin - but it never did. The bar was spacious, scarce pieces of mix-matched furniture sporadically clumped around the place. Metal office chairs paired with high stools around ankle endangering oak coffee tables. The place was a mess. There was never that many people there, a few regulars who faded into the darkness surrounding them and I was thankful for that, it gave me a clear view of him.

I favored a seat by the bar, stool facing outwards, my scarlet heels pointed in his direction to show my availability hoping he'd look up and see me - but he never did. He was known only as Shadow around those parts and it was very fitting. In a way we were all shadows there, shapeless figures sipping on solitary drinks, each tormented by one past or another, half lost in a communal smoky haze from a host of lonely cigarettes. Each individual mind plagued by unique troubles sharing combined solace in flowing alcohol. My first visit to this bar was entirely accidental. I ducked in to hide from the increasing December cold outside. Unusually the cold from the outside doesn't reach through to the lost souls in this bar. To me the warmth feels out of place here, adding a homely feeling to our assaulting, isolated ambiance. It seems unlikely that somewhere where death hangs in the air, exhaled breath does not. In this town the cold can be felt in the marrow and the winters sneaks up on the people. They'll get a preview in October, a brief week in which the frost will set in and there'll be a sudden change in the wind, and then summer will return to toy with them as if nothing had transpired. The cold will arrive again to attack around mid-December, catching the folk off guard in show-offish sundresses and khakis. Winds that cut through flesh like arrows through sinew, and pierces from all angles. I'm never caught out with the weather, I always dress for winter - heavy cord jackets atop matted fleece undercoats. Mostly it's to hide the revealing numbers underneath, protect my modesty, but in the winter my overcautious layers have a double use.

Shadow was here on my first chance visit to this bar. I walked in and stood a moment in the threshold waiting to thaw out and the feeling to return to my extremities. As soon as I could feel my toes I walked over to the bar and ordered myself an ironic 'Vodka straight, honey' and then took a seat on the nearest stool. Scanning the room my eyes fell on him, his profile silhouetted by the stage lights. I'm not usually one for cliches, but it was love at first sight. I started coming back at that time weekly and absorbing all I could of him. He'd arrive at roughly 9 every Thursday evening. I'd be in position by the bar from eight thirty, sipping on a martini, my stomach flipping every time the corroded little bell above the door sounded feebly. When he did arrive he'd walk past me to his table at the front. Every week as he sauntered past, eyes fixed with determination to the floor, I'd hold my breath, lips pressed painfully in silent prayer that he'd look up and see me, but again - he never did. He'd then take to his usual seat at the front and order a whiskey. He'd nurse the first sullenly, soundlessly contemplating life, like any man, at any bar, all over this harrowed nation. After the second or third, he'd begin laughing at thin air. An infectious chuckle which rose like a bubble from his chest and burst forth, hitting every wall in the bar and ricocheting right at me; forcing me with a gentle hand to join in. At around midnight he'd reach his peak, singing aloud to the music in his head; fast southern anthems, the words never quite accurate. His emerald eyes twinkling with an excitement mine mirrored. Never without a cigarette between his fingers he'd expel the smoke in perfect rings and I'd watch as they danced above him, expanding at the pace they were floating until they dispersed and died too high to be saved by mortal hand.

Waitresses would come over to take further drinks orders and they'd flirt with him, he'd be polite back and touch their hands, make them laugh but I knew he wasn't interested. Even on the occasions I saw him leave with one I knew it was only because he was growing lonely waiting for me to approach him. Every night as closing creeped closer I'd have an internal battle with myself. Reasoning that it was too soon to introduce myself I'd always go home disappointed. I longed to speak to Shadow, to confirm to him that I was everything he was looking for. I knew I could fix what was broken within him, I could see it there, even from a distance. The dark hand of past regret and blood shed hovering above him. It really showed after his tenth drink. The songs escaping him became less lively, macabre ballads about lost loves and war torn nations. He no longer made shapes with the smoke but instead allowed it to abdicate from his barely parted lips as it wished, or it was expelled with his sighs like the breath of a listless dragon. It was after he reached this stage that he'd usually run out of money for drinks, curse and stagger back past me and out into the desolate night. This was also the time I'd usually foolishly consider, and begrudgingly decide against, approaching him.

I knew one day we'd converse and he'd realize I was what he'd been longing for his whole life in the same climactic moment of crashing recognition I had experienced when my tired eyes first fell upon him. I dreamt of him, his soft half-smile, his gruff whisper telling me he loved me, his large coarse hands exploring my body pulling at the skin stretched over my collar bone, his lips hunting for mine. I thought of him in this way often, but it wasn't just sexual longings I had for Shadow, to me he was everything my father told me I'd never have; love, a family, happiness. Most nights as I watched him I'd become hopelessly lost in exquisite delusions, my eyes glazing over as if a protective film had come down behind my irises to protect my visions from leaking out and exposing me to the acrid world. He laced every thought my mind conjured throughout my empty days. Each emergence of him causing my heart to swell and indanger me of collapsing. If I was brave I'd walk right over to him and take his hand, and blindly lead him running into our future.

It took me nine months of playing shadow to Shadow to actually speak to him. On this particular evening I'd been observing him customarily from my stool by the bar when nature had called and I'd slunk away to the bathroom. I noticed as I was urinating that there was a crude poem carved into the cistern. I giggled at the sloppy rhyming of 'Penis' and 'Hygienist'. After relieving myself I stepped out from the squalid cubicle and was face to face with him. My head began to reel, I felt as if I'd stepped into a paradoxical universe where both vulgar nightmare and purest aspiration merged into one. I stared upon the soft complexion of my love, his face half cast into darkness by the meager light above us. Us, the two of us, standing not even a meter apart, close enough to touch. My eyes searched his for recognition, exploring the deep brown of his irises as if looking for fossils within barren soil. Swiftly they flicked towards his lips, the right corner had raised softly in a warm smile and I knew it was about to happen. I saw our lives lain out before us, like a many pronged road map with two smiling faces leading the way. Everything my existence had the potential to be was created in that hint of a smile, and shattered by what came next.
'Jesus Christ.' He said through snarled lips, a loathsome smirk twisting his features. His empty, judging eyes drank me in, moving up and down my frame. The emerald in them dead. Once such a precious stone, now just polished glass amongst pebbles on a shore. With a mocking chuckle he turned and exited the bathroom, leaving me in my place among the excrement and the stench that accompanied it.

I stood there stunned for what seemed like forever, running the scene I'd just witnessed on a loop behind my shattered protective screen. Searching through my subconscious I found that all the blissful fantasies I'd conjured up had been replaced with that snarl and a cruel realization. The whole affair had been a deviant misconception, a string of romanticised events coupled with an extreme, crippling loneliness had caused me to imagine that Shadow was perfect, and that he was mine. I now realized he was a drunk, a narrow-minded boozer and his kind despised me on principal. I slowly turned to look at myself in the battered bathroom mirror. My eyes explored this man's face as if it wasn't my own but as I blinked so did he and I began to realize why. Heavily made up eyes struggled to adjust to the dim lighting as they slid across my features. A grotesque monster in cheap, smudged lipstick. I ran my fingers through the rough synthetic hair that hung from my head, barely able to feel it at all. I exited the men's room in a daze, kept my eyes to the floor to hide the steadily flowing hot tears of humiliation. Walking out into the dissipated street a familiar cold consumed me, I lit up a cigarette, receiving the smoke into my lungs gladly. I held it in front of me as I walked, a glowing ember of hope and an eventual promise of death - my one friend in the world. I never went back to that bar.

Scar

The shouts of unseen children followed him as he made his way behind the stalls. His world ablaze from the light of a flashing neon sun, he placed a filter-less cigarette between his dry lips and inhaled hard. He felt that haze fall over his mind that can only come with the feeding of an addiction. When he pulled it out again to exhale it took a tiny piece of his skin off with it, he licked his wound, enjoying the taste and the pain. His eyes rose to the open sky above him, squinting in defence against the heavy rain. The cigarette was starting to burn with every toke; he drew in a final dirty breath and flicked it away, watching the embers bounce and falter against the muddy floor. He was starting to feel uneasy alone in that alley, he walked on towards his destination - the sounds of life seemed far away now and the silence was pressing in on him. He stopped in front of his objective and squinted around him. The feeling of agitation was growing with every dwindling moment. He took to pacing the space outside her door to take his mind off it. He noticed the rain getting harder, beating him down like tiny exploding fists, he was already drenched but now he wondered if he'd ever be dry again. Just as his eyes were adjusting to the absolute darkness around him a sliver of light broke through accompanied by the rusty squeak of an abused door. His eyes shot up hopefully and there she was, her perfect eyes glaring at him through the damp haze.

'Inside.' She hissed venomously. He trotted over to her like an overly excited puppy, sliding in through the cracked door. His body grazed against hers, dampening her with the outside world - she winced. 'Take off that coat, you're drenching the trailer.' She walked over to the dingy faux-marble kitchen counter and reached for two odd, chipped glasses. She looked at him coldly and slowly raised one eyebrow, realizing he still hadn't taken his coat off he scrambled out of it in such a haste he knocked over a frame. She sighed exasperatedly and poured two whisky straights before walking back over to him. He watched as she drank, never a wince with even the strongest liquor, and here he was nursing his poison like a housewife. He knocked back the entire glass, coughing and spluttering as it burned down his throat and into his organs, he could feel her judging, beautiful eyes watching him and so he looked up through repressed tears - she caught his gaze, and began to take her clothes off. She slid her straps down her shoulders and motioned for him to help her with the clasps. He cleared the distance of the trailer in two enthusiastic strides and placed his hand softly against her neck and led it to the fastening of her dress. He undid her clasps with fumbling hands, slightly catching her skin with his nail; not like she noticed - she was numb by now. He placed his cold, coarse hands against her exposed pearly skin, and gently turned her so she was facing him. He pulled her body against his and desperately forced his mouth over hers and felt that haze descending over his senses again. He angrily grappled at her breast, making fingernail indents all over her delicate skin. She placed her hand against his chest and quietly bore the ordeal, only kissing back when his thrusting tongue gave her no other choice. He knew she despised him. He was well aware that every time he left her trailer, she cried herself to sleep, nursing a bottle of gin and mentally blocking him out so she had the strength to wake up the next day. He knew all this, and he didn't care. He was so dependant on what she gave him that it no longer mattered to him - he couldn't stop. The guilt faded long ago when the burning desire began to take over. He could see the knife in her hand and he grabbed a handful of her hair in his and pulled it back roughly, causing her to whimper in pain.

'Do it.' he growled against her neck, his erection was beginning to hurt against his tight jeans. Her eyes locked with his and he could see the disgust in them, the vile hatred behind the stony expression. She brought the knife down so it's cool menacing tip was lightly pressed against his side, he felt the excitement rush through him like an electric wave and he quivered with anticipation. Staring straight through him she slid the knife into his flesh. He cried out in a repulsive combination of pleasure and pain and simultaneously felt warm substance between his legs from his ejaculation.  His eyes rolled back into his head as the pain and ecstasy became too much, his knees buckled and he fell back, happily chuckling. He could feel himself losing consciousness but it didn't matter, she'd tend to him, she always did. When he awoke he'd be clean and clothed and he could pay her and leave. He knew he'd be back; the memory only lasted so long. He thought about his wife and repressed the urge to vomit, not sure whether it was the pain of his wound or the pain of his sham of a marriage that was producing the bile. There was only a certain amount of times he could fuck her while picturing another woman's face before their faces merge and he lost the appeal. The time between his visits was becoming less and less, he was starting to feel irritable and shaky after shorter periods of time. Like any addiction the constant longing, the consuming lechery was taking over his life. He knew he had a problem, but he also knew he could never stop. He’d always come running back to this trailer behind the fairground, to add another scar to his violated mentality, and his tattered skin. He'd keep taking the desecration, giving himself to her, until he had nothing left to give. His mind hazed over as he passed out, swimming in fond memories of blood and semen, completely consumed by his masochistic obsession. 

Rifle

Esben Jannson brought the axe down in one swift motion. A rip of wood and a dull thud signalled that he had completed the task. It was far from hot in the cabin but he was damp with sweat. He barely had time to register the beads sprouting on his crinkled brow before they sped between his eyes and down his nose. Playfully leaping off at the tip, to fall to their death upon the dusty derelict floor. Although closer to the Skårki mountain than most dared to be (the nearest town being 3 hours away) Esben felt truly blessed as he collected up his freshly chopped wood and headed towards the main house. The air outside was crisp and still, the way it always was at dawn. As Esben looked around at the frosted grassland and snow flecked forest, a sadness gripped him. This realization of solitude was one he often had when surveying his land; the place had an eerie forgotten feel to it. Everything in the mountain's shadow had the ability to play tricks on even the calmest mind. Was that rustling’s source animal or maniac? Are those my footprints or has another been walking this path? Esben averted his gaze from the permanently dark woods, smiled, and shook the snow off his boots, the feeling of unease shedding with it. 

The house itself was still small but made of brick and mortar,as apposed to wood like the cabin. In the far corner of the room was a stove, inside it a dying flame - feebly attempting to spread warmth around with little result. Esben rushed to its aid, snatching it from the brink of death and providing it with new fresh logs on which to feast and indulge. The fire ebbed higher, gaining strength and with the glow of the room restored Esben sat on his plaid chair and put his damp feet up onto the stove. He now had approximately fourteen minutes before Isak would wake up and he'd have to start the routine for the day. He closed his eye and began drifting away towards a dream, grateful for the almost-quarter hour of stolen sleep. A loud bark and footsteps from the east side of the house announced that Esben's calculations had been wrong. Isak was awake. He listened to his son pottering around, hesitating and mumbling as he collected up clothes for the day ahead. Within five minutes Isak strolled into the kitchen, his dirty blonde hair fell over his eyes as he entered the room. Barely thirteen and already approaching 6 foot, Esben's son was a picture of Swiss cliché right down to his pale blue irises. Isak smirked softly, pushed his hair out his eyes and chimed;
'Morning father'
'Good morning Isak, I trust you slept well?' Esben swiveled in his chair so he was facing the battered dinner table. He pushed the stool across from him out with his foot and gestured for Isak to join him. Their dog Rudi ran between the chair legs and settled under the table.
'I always do father.' his son replied, lowering himself into the presented seat.
   Esben knew this answer to be true of late; however things had not always been this quaint and light-hearted in their little mountain home. Esben handed his son a plate of food and watched his eyes light up. Those same eyes were the ones Esben's voice used to inspire fear within. The same eyes that would struggle to repress tears of pain produced by Esben's own fist. Esben had a history of heavy drinking and it was this addiction which had lead to years of constant verbal, often physical abuse towards his son. Esben was shameful of those years, those memories. They inspired a dread to fill his heart, but with months of practised repression he quickly stifled them. Every time he looked at his son now he was filled with a powerful paternal urge to protect him from harm. Luckily the only harm Isak had ever known has ceased on the day he tried to run away. Esben's wife Ide had fled years ago, and he realized his son would do the same if his violent behaviour did not change. 

So he started by giving his son his prized rifle. The rifle had always been Esben’s favourite procession. He used to get distressed if ever Isak even looked at it, warning his son against touching it in the best way he knew how. So when Esben presented his son with it as a gift it became obvious that the demons inside him were ebbing away, and they could start afresh. In the days before, this gun would have been used as a tool to aid Esben's violence towards Isak. Now he could use it to teach his son, not to behave, but to hunt. 
‘Isak, you’ve barely touched your meal.’ Esben spoke stonily, he saw his sons features tighten before they broke into an apprehensive smile, Esben smiled back to assure his manner was one of a lighthearted mocking.
‘I am just excited for today. Can we start now?’ Esben looked at the glee in Isak’s eyes. Isak broke the traditional Swiss mould in this one way; he had the playful soul of a child. Most men had already lost their whimsy by adolescence but to make up for lost years Esben was trying to keep his son young for as long as he could. However he knew this place couldn’t hold him forever. There was a whole world beyond the Skårki and Esben would have to let his son move on eventually. For now however it was his job to keep his soul young.
‘Yes, follow me.’ Esben lead Isak and Rudi into the cabin to get the gun. The routine could begin. He watched as Isak loaded the rifle exactly how Esben had taught him, paying special attention to make sure the cartridges faced the right way. Next he put on his winter coverings, hat, scarf, gloves, extra hat, extra scarf and extra gloves. The best sheilds a father could provide his offspring against the menacing Swiss assualt. 
‘Are you ready to go hunting?’ Esben began. Isak nervously looked over himself, at Rudi, at the gun, then back.
‘Yes Pa.’ He replied strongly.
‘Are you sure?’ Esben teased. At this Isak looked panicked, his eyes searched Esben’s and the room – looking for anything he’d forgotten.
‘…Yes Pa.’ he replied eventually.
‘Okay then, do you promise to bring back birds for dinner?’
‘I’ll try pa.’
‘Hey now, do you promise?’
‘I promise.’ Isak said sternly, the look of adventure back in his eyes.
‘Then off you go, take Rudi.’ Esben gave his son an encouraging pat on the shoulder and with an accomplished smile Isak whistled to the dog, turned on his heel and left. 

Esben went back into the house and sat down at his type-writer to begin writing. His mind a mess of verbs and metaphors he barely noticed the time pass. He had finished by lunch, he looked out at the forest and wondered why his son had not yet returned. Once again exercising his flawless ignorance, Esben quashed the unease and attended to more busy work. With each ebbing second of the clock Esben’s fear grew, he started to get up to check out the window at every imagined sound. As the sun began to set Esben knew something was not right. Isak usually returned by lunch, the temperature was dropping with every minute and once the sun had gone down the forest would be impossible to navigate through. Esben threw on his winter coverings, hat, scarf and gloves, no time for extras, and ran out the door towards the forest. He followed tracks that appeared to be made by Isak and Rudi, they entered the forest at the closest possible place to their home. 
'ISAK' Esben screamed his name as he took his first step into the forest. If there were still 
footsteps to be found here, he could not see them. He followed the moon beams through gaps in the foliage all the time calling for his lost son. He found he could no longer trust his instincts, with the utter panic of losing Isak ready to consume him it was all he could do not to fall down and cry. He ran through the darkness, unaware where he was going and not even bothering to remember where he'd been. The trees whispered around him, laughing at his struggle. What if something terrible had happened? Had he heard gun shots? Were there wolves this side of the mountain? Esben felt like these thoughts were at his shoulder, following him through every clearing. They were everywhere, grabbing at his heels, lodged in his airway, coiled round his chest and growing tighter. He ran fast to escape them but it was meaningless, they had the upper hand. Hiding in the shadows, he could feel their stare, penetrating his soul and forcing him to think the worst. But he mustn't doubt. Isak knew these woods, he knew what to do. Esben taught him how to work the gun long ago, cohabiting in woodland surrounded by wild animals it would have been irresponsible not to. 
'Isak!' he tried to call once more, but only a hoarse whisper escaped him. His voice now lost along with his son. Esben slowed his run to a walk. Covered in mud, shit and blood he had no choice but to let the thoughts wash over him. He knew his son was dead, he'd known it since before the sun set that day. He allowed the doubt to enter him, where it became morbid certainty. It was the solitude of this place, it was in his bones, spreading through his organs like a virus. Just as his feet were about to give way he turned into a clearing. Esben's heart leapt.

There he was. His blonde hair in his eyes and a guilty look touching his features, Rudi sitting lazily by his side. 
'Isak!' he managed to growl. Isak stared at his father, then down at his feet looking crestfallen. Esben ran to him and embraced him with such force that he let out a small pained gasp. 'Why did you not return at lunch like you usually do?' when Esben released his son he found Isak could not meet his gaze. 
'I couldn't find any game.' Isak's voice cracked as he spoke, his eyes once again repressing tears Esben had caused 'I didn't want to break my promise to you Pa.' Isak looked up with apprehension, but seeing his father's face so deformed with such a strong mix of emotions. Isak's expression warmed. Esben burst into loud, relieved laughter. 
'Let's go home son' he chuckled 'Give me the gun' Isak outstretched the cold gun towards one of his father's hands and thread his fingers through the other. Though usually opposed to affection like this, Esben felt he owed Isak. With Isak's hand warming in his and Rudi bounding slightly ahead, he began back to the house happy to have things back to their reliable routine. He closed his fingers around the cold barrel and held the gun at his side. 

Only there was no gun. Esben's hand reached around thin air. His other hand squeezed nothing too. There was no dog. The foot prints leading out the woods belonged to only one pair of feet. Esben began to whistle, still trapped in his grief-fuelled delusion. He shook off the feeling of isolation once again and happily stumbled through the grove in a hallucinogenic daze. 
He had been doing the same walk every day for three years. 
Ever since his son had fled from a beating, run away to the woods, and shot himself.

Choked

She told me that I’d choked the life out of her. She was adventurous before she met me; she ‘had dreams’.  According to her; twelve years with me had quelled every aspiration she’d had. Just over a decade as my wife is enough, she said, to steal from her even her ability to hope for the future. Now, all she looks forward to is the tiny fragment of a moment at night, when my monotonous wheezing breaths stop. Now, her only dream, only hope is that the brief halt in my respiration is actually a sign of the halting of my entire existence not just a harmless symptom of sleep apnea. Her only aspiration now is that one day when she rolls over in the morning - after she remembers that this dreary life is hers and the depression sets in again -my eyes will be staring back at her with no life behind them. As she spewed all these venomous nothings at me I noticed that the flecks of spittle flying from her mouth were reaching a further distance with every angry word directed at me.  I made a mental note to avoid them when they eventually approached. She always spat when she raised her voice. I watched the dampness on her bottom lip collecting as I let her words wash over me. Those lips. The red gloss I once was so enticed by now sunk into their dry cracks and collected in little repulsive blobs across them. Those lips. Once so plump and encouraging, were now wrinkled, fine, and in permanent scorn. I moved my gaze across her face. Contorted in rage and wizened so severely somehow by so few years she did not look like the woman who lay beneath me so happily once. Those lips. How I ever coveted them perplexed me. Flashes of memories raced through my mind, my hand running up a sweaty thigh, red lips quavering and gasping, breath against my neck, a small chuckle of achievement and a lit cigarette. It all made sense then, because she was it. All I wanted, all my dreams, my hopes, my aspirations. I allowed my eyes to travel across her body, wondering how I ever explored it without nausea. My vision wandered up from her calf, mentally undressing her as I went and lingering on her decrepit breast. Disgusted I looked around me at our drab house, our tedious life, our meaningless existence. The apartment we lived in, a cesspit of vermin and regret.  I wasn’t even feigning interest in whatever she was hissing at me anymore. I allowed myself one more sweep over her body and back to her face and then my eyes caught hers. And there it was; everything I’d lost swimming in her blue irises. Trapped there since the day we stood in front of the lord and lied. I felt a speckle of saliva land on my cheek and that was it. I saw red. Those lips. Those monstrous lips, gasping and quavering once more.
She told me that I’d choked the life out of her. So I did.