The moments blended in a cohesive consciousness that seemed inhuman; invalid thought patterns. My circuits are screwed to high hell? But the thought appears to be logical. Destroying life is never planned, only a scarab burrowing to the center of your brain. So bothersome until you actually want it’s exodus to end with your bloody hands caught in the cookie jar. That is how the process goes...people die, some time off over the horizon? No, now, they've died yesterday, or a minute ago. Why care whom takes them...her—
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Sleeping next to me, her breaths calm and content—probably plotting down the blueprints to a well manifested master plan. Full color twelve by twelve's of infidelity don't lie. We don't even have sex anymore. Tonight it's, "Let's go right upstairs." And the bitch slams her legs shut. Vigorously rushing me past Nalia’s room, wooing me not to kiss my daughter goodnight. More reasons to grab my pillow and…and let it drift above her face, then allow gravity and my biceps do me proud.
The angel, yin, guilt, whichever, swelled me with cynicism about murdering my wife of twenty-five years. The devil, yang, apathy, either or—it is they I'm beginning to listen too; that means when I actually do it, the floorboards won't creak in nervous early morning strides. No Grey Goose vodka emanating through my pores. Calm. And content. Just like her breaths.
Calm—tranquil. Push the pillow down Greg, and make her dead, corpse calm. Do it. The clock, the time, it's significant somehow. Read a minute before twelve.
"Mommy? Mommy? Did you hear me?"
I hear you, I hear you. "Nine fifty honey." She'll romp around for hours on end until...
"Is daddy coming home late tonight again? I hate it when..."
I have learned to stop listening. My eyes are lit up, head moving up in down, mouth generating the occasional, "Yes he is honey" or "He'll be home soon". Jump little girl. Play; ignore me, I am here for your service m'lady. Ruined my life. Once upon an empty Vicoden bottle, I even had a figure. Voluptuous was a familiar word...but dumb bitch became common language after I was married too.
Have to pay attention...sometime.
"—wish I could have a brother! Can we ask daddy for a brother?"
I...I wish my father would have paid for the abortion. I'd be someone; red carpets, sky view suites, Versace pillows with silk bed sheets. Imported wine from—
"Mommy? Mommy? Mommieeee!"
Let me "complete a fucking thought!" Did I? "Sorry baby...go play in the living room. He'll...be home soon."
Off she goes. Everything would be easier if she was gone. An accident. It could very well be..."Aha." Conceivably something that happens to children all the time. Smiles all around, and I think a gold star is in order. Wife to an NRA member who failed to properly store his gun...
It was an odd thing to notice. That expression shifted towards me and I knew it had to be ripped away.
I weighed too much for her to struggle successfully beneath. For some reason I thought if I put my hand on the pillow over where her mouth was, maybe that'd stop the thrashing and muffled screams. God damn it, just give up!
"Row...row...row" I sent her off with a song and internal bleeding. Getting better with narcissism...
Cloth around the grip, easy steps, all smiles. Red hair spilled over the back of the couch. Quiet as a mouse. The Simpsons warped her attention. Ten o'clock...must be ten o'clock. Every Thursday. Stay calm and content...and take a fistful of her hair and one in the eye...all I need to do...
Things that are done can be undone.