The evening paper...

The sound of soft classical music and the flumping of the evening newspaper leaked under the doorway, subtle, omniscient, haunting. She could picture him in his leather chair. She could see the highball glass in his hand. She wondered if it was full. She wondered if he was still holding it at a proper angle or if drops of scotch were staining her carpet. She tried to picture his eyes, dark circles, flecks of purple and green. She wondered if they were still open. If they were drooping. She did not open the door until she heard the distinctive thump of thick glass on thicker carpet.

He was out cold. The glass rested where she knew it would be. The paper still hung from one hand. His other hand was on his gut. She said his name, but he did not move. She shook him, but the only reward was a loosening of vapors. Body odor and scotch and the stench of the newsroom. She slapped him, hard, and he glamped onward, eyelids fluttering.

"I fucking hate you."

She whispered it. Like you would whisper into a lover's ear. She didn't want anyone to hear. She didn't understand it herself. It wasn't anything he did. It was the things he didn't do. The things he'd promised and never delivered.

She felt a wave of rage overtake her. She grasped the bottle of scotch by the neck and had her first drink in years ... as much as she could choke down - liquid fire...cleansing fire. It was electric. Her brain smirked. She poured the rest of the bottle over his head, matting the grey hair to his swollen skull. She was starting to feel it. She felt cold, calm. She'd forgotten how good it was.

"You piece of shit. Big man. You may be a big man at work, but you're nothing here. You're fucking furniture."

She laughed. She stepped forward and slapped him again. Harder, this time. He stirred briefly, but then his head settled, cheek mottled red against his starched white oxford. She laughed. She went into the kitchen to look for something. A marker. Ketchup. Tin foil. Something. Something she could use to fuck with the big, sleeping bear.

She did not realize she had been looking for the butcher's knife until it was in her hand.

12:53 AM

I'm so sick and tired of the same old thing. And yet I crave routine's complicity. I live in the dark, but it's a murky kind of dark...like wearing your sunglasses into a bar. Everything is smeared in Vaseline. Time drips from the ceiling like blood onto a clean linoleum floor. There's some citrus scent you can never quite place and the air moves weird. I wonder if I'll ever get over the feeling that my mom's just worried about me getting blood on the rug. I wonder why I cared then, and I wonder even more why I give a shit now. But I do.