Short Story: The Unthinkable

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Stephen King said "Keep it simple."

The Unthinkable

The room is decorated with shattered pictures, hanging on the wall catawampus. A wedding picture, their wedding picture, lays dismember on the stained carpet. A broken lamp envelops one corner, a smashed television cling to the wall, spider web glass serving as proof of a problem. The drywall covered with fist sized black caves on all four sides exposed screws embedded into studs, their purpose unserved now.

Twenty or so prescription bottles, most spilled during the struggle, rest on her nightstand, chipped faux wood, resembling a shelf from the drugstore. One says Xanax, the other Valium, the next Lexapro, Paxil, Wellbutrin, Fluoxetine, Clonazepam, Lorazepam, etc. Accumulated over years of distress, compounded on top of a marriage not quite kosher.

This life isn't the life she had envisioned. Stereotypical white picket fenced house, vibrant green ensconced backyard filled with children's laughter and glee. A puppy giving chase, joining the family as they cookout with their neighbors and tell tales of yesteryears. That life never happened, nor will it ever.

A his and her disaster piece.

Her chest heaves outward, followed by a deep sigh.

I love you he says.

I know she says as she looks down at the debris riddled floor.

This was for us, my gesture to us he says.

I know she says never looking up from her shattered life. Her chest bulges with oxygen, followed by another bellowing sigh.

This changes nothing he says. His hand reaches out to console her shoulder, she recoils.

Blood riddles their distressed faces. Skin tore from freshly manicured fingernails. Their hair is tangled and vandalized.

Her pale white skin, contrasts with fresh red lacerations. That blouse he bought her two birthdays ago, torn on the shoulder, stretch from his raged grip. Her bra, black and white striped shows through. She sits on the bed, comforter disheveled, pillows and sheets whisked around, in her torn blouse that barely hung low enough to cover her panties, which were unharmed.

Her chest heaves rolls upward, followed by an exhausted sigh.

A decal clings to the wall, 'Live Life Love'. The three L's for a happy, meaningful existence. The first thing she read that morning, the last thing she saw when she closed her eyes. Now it hangs half on, half off the wall, reading 'Live Li'. Her stomach swells, pursued by an agonizing sigh.

The air is thick with hate, disgust. A heat radiates through the room, burning their insides, discomfort. Never looking towards one another, not even for a second. Tears rain down moistening the woman's hand. Mucus slyly tries to escape her nose, sniffled back in.

The man, her husband, surveys the damage. Eyes wondering from left to right, just like yours. Blood is on the carpet, patches of dark maroon trying to blend in. So much blood. Too much blood.

Raising his hands to his war torn face, tracing the landscape searching for wounds, for pain. Wetting his thumb, rubbing away a dried spot of blood on his forearm, he sits.

Motionless.

Slouched in shame.

The room smells of copper, metallic, all the blood. The battle that took place was just as much psychologically damaging as it was physically.

I am who I am he says.

I know she says, sniffling in between. Her breasts rise, a sigh chases afterwards.

This changes nothing he says. Repetition buying time for deeper thought.

The crying deepens, from the soul, from the deepest spectrums of the inner body. Looking face to face at the shattered family photo, probably the second thing smashed, thrown across the small white room. Him, her, and their son. Across the bottom it reads, 'The Anderson Family'. The perfect family.

Say cheese and smile.

The perfect family.

Hold each other close.

The perfect family.

Eyes forward, shiny with love.

The perfect family.

That's gone now, forever, never coming back forever.

They sit back to back, to ashamed to face one another. Every attempt he makes to physically sympathize with her, shunned, unwanted.

The room begins to yellow. Brightness shines through, slowly at first, shards of light finding the gaps in the distraught window dressing. Destroyed in the heat of passion, demolished by the heartbreak, ruined by the disgrace.

The sunlight captures a world unseen in the darkness. Particles floating, swaying to the atmosphere. Dancing in the light, disappearing into insignificance.

I am your husband, I am the same Jim you married sixteen years ago he says.

Her head shakes, the tears roll off the side of her peach bruised cheeks. This is not who I married she says. Why couldn't you have started smoking, she says, or started drinking? Why this? Why turn to this? She paws at a small plush frog, spotted with blood. Her hand tremble, anxious of what's next. The frog, eyes of innocence, peer into hers, met with eyes of pain, suffering, a hurricane of emotion.

Melissa, this changes nothing, he says, absolutely nothing.

Shreds of newspaper are strewn across the bed, almost resembling sheets, there's so much of it. The clippings from the man's escapades. His adventures, Jim's "hobby".

The top newspaper read, Yet Another Child Found Dismembered and Murdered.

This changes nothing he says again. Melissa, this changes nothing. Shame can be heard in his voice, no conviction, no belief.

Tires can be heard screeching to a stop close by. Lots of them. Vehicles sliding to a standstill quickly and precisely.

Muffled voices, commands echo out in the nearby.

An officer yells through a loudspeaker, Jim Daniels come out with your hands up. We know you're the Night Terror. Thirty four kids massacred, all by your hands. Come out now!

This changes nothing he says.

One more sigh escapes before the sound of breaching devices cloud the house and it's now the beginning of the end.

The gun slide is slowly pulled back, chambering THE round.

The end of life round.

The final object to touch his living breathing body.

Pressed tightly to his temple, Melissa doesn't flinch.

Her mind is numb, she knows what's happening but it is irrelevant to her at this point.

The bedroom door is kicked in, shards of wood fly through in slow motion.

Jim pulls the trigger, his body instantly locks up, no more pain, no more suffering, nothingness, darkness.

Melissa, still motionless, unflinching, is ushered out quickly.

Jim's body finally relaxes, muscle ease, body limp.

His life leaves him as he slides to the floor, body resting on the clipping of newspaper, oh the irony.

Dying on the stories of the children he brought death to.

Jim enters the darkness forever, joining his thirty four children captives, his collection of souls.

THAT'S IT. HOPE IT WAS GOOD FOR YOU.