Melinda walks away again. She’s crying, again. Bile gnaws at my gut. The floor is saturated with her blood. It’s deep enough that it splashes a little under her feet.
In an amazing trick of the acoustics in here that I can hear each individual footstep despite the too-loud music coming through the walls. The neighbours are playing Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” on repeat, and it always skips just as the song gets to the climax. Over and over Pat sings “Fire Awe-weh-weh-weh-weh.” Eventually the song starts over.
As soon as the door closes behind Melinda, the phone rings. I let it. It’s George. It’s always George.
Without picking up I go into the kitchen and open the fridge. Maybe this time will be different. I wonder for the hundredth time how long I was away. There’s no way to tell except for the puff of…
View original post 973 more words