softaest

Crimson staining the concrete under you, and splattered on your husband’s sleeves. The juxtaposition of your husband and Simon solidifies itself then. Something that made your mouth water and heart race with desire when it came to Simon is repulsive on your husband. Something that lodges a lump deep in your throat, makes it difficult to swallow the tears running down your cheeks. 

Your hands shake as you reach out to the bunny lying there motionless. Fear runs through your body, raging anger, but the guilt is the heaviest. 

It’s your fault. It’s all your fault. 

The bunny was innocent. A sweet, pure thing that had nothing to do with you and Simon or your deceit. And still, your husband took his anger out on it, snapped its neck in two like it was the one coercing you to Simon's doorstep. The poisoned apple. 

He’s too narcissistic to realize it was him. Too much of a coward to confess he was the one who forced you down this dark and moldered path. One that made you lose your wedding ring somewhere in the backroom of Simon’s butcher shop when you left your dignity on your knees. 

Your husband had hardly noticed really, it’s not like he paid attention to detail when it came to you. You were shocked when he did notice, stuttering over your words, and you offered a weak apology, saying you had lost it while washing the dishes.

It was a lie, he knew it. A part of you thinks you didn’t try to convince him on purpose. That you lost it on purpose because you didn’t know how to end this any other way. It’d be easier if he was the one.

Everything else after that is black, a flurry of running after him as he storms to the backyard shed. You had screamed so loud when he picked the bunny up, the poor thing kicking its hind legs in the toughest fight it could muster. It looked so tiny in his palm, trapped in his confines.

“Been letting you feed this damn pest in my backyard and this is how you repay me?” He spat it out with fury, globs of saliva landing on your cheeks.

“Put it down, please." You spoke calmly, masking the way your chest was vibrating with anxiety. "I don't even know what you're talking about, sweetheart.” 

Sweetheart. There's that damn word you trickle in. A front. Appeasement of sorts to show you still care, that this is a marriage you want. 

“I should’ve known, marrying a whore like you.”

Whore. He says it so often you don't even bat an eye. Sweetheart, whore, the words have become analogous at this point.   

You were too late after that. The sound of its cracking neck came first. Its thrown limp body on the floor. Its head makes a thud as it lands hard on the gray cement at your feet, blood splashed underneath it.

It all happened so fast you didn't have time to react besides falling to your knees next to it. The worst part is you didn't even name it. A part of you afraid of the attachment you would've grown when you knew it would eventually lead to this. Afraid of what it would mean when he finally did.

You think you black out for a few seconds, coming to in short fuzzy bursts as reality dawns on you. It's funny the way raw meat did not affect you, not when Simon was the one meticulously handling it. Funny how you were willing to lie on the butcher block next to it all, be the sacrificial lamb instead, but this draws a vizierial reaction. 

You stay still, despite your quivering fingers, until the fog clears, until your hands stop and your heart calms. Everything clashes together then, morphing into this ugly, angry monster in your chest that takes over. Years of just burying it down, pretending you were okay, boil over and your pretty bow that sealed it all together unravels. Tears in two for the first time since you've laid eyes on your coward of a husband. 

You look up at him then, at the ugly figure that has the audacity to call himself a man. You won’t be too late this time.

“You’re right.” You stand, saying it with the same conviction he spat at you, except yours has reason, a deeper meaning than insecurity. "It’s the butcher. Had me on my knees last week.”

He storms across the distance then, an anger in his eyes you're not quite used to. You don't move though, not even a flinch when he wraps his hands around your throat and slams you against the wall of the shed. Your head throbs from the impact, a panging tightness radiating from your skull down your spine. Your hands find purchase on his forearm, dragging your nails along his skin until it draws blood, legs kicking out as the bunny had in his grasp too. 

“Right on top of the meat you eat for dinner every night.” You say it between your strangled breaths and stinging lash line with tears you try your best to hold back.

His fingers tighten around your neck after that and the edges of your vision go dark, hands losing their grip on him when you physically can't fill your lungs with air. You see your mom at the edges, the abuse she endured when you were young. When she wasn’t brave enough to do something about it and leave. When she put her faith above reality. Above you.

You think maybe you should be thinking about your faith instead of hers. Muttering a prayer you were forced to memorize growing up, but none of them come to mind. None of them could help you now. This God should’ve saved you years ago.

The rest is a blur, you don’t know what you grab, or how you even manage to, but it’s heavy, and you can barely wrap your fingers around it. All you know is it makes your husband’s hands fall from your throat, falling back after repeatedly bashing his head with it.

Your cross necklace follows him, silver jewelry ricocheting off the floor. You think it has to be a metaphor, a sign from this God. Being set free from the expectations of religion, set free of the shackles that weighed you down for so long. The cross scalded on your skin melted off.

There’s blood dripping from his forehead when you finally stop, and he’s looking at you in shock, fingers dabbing at the wound like he hadn't just had his hands around your jugular. It makes you laugh, a sound that comes out half broken from your strained throat. 

“We’re done.” It's raspy, but final.

You don't look back as you walk back inside the house you've lived in for years. Don't even give him a shred of acknowledgement when you pack a duffel bag. 

You find you don't have much of importance in this house besides Simon's jacket. 

You don't even realize you've got blood on your shirt and under your finger nails until you're outside Simon's door and he looks at you concerned.

You’re not even surprised when you see your ring glimmer out of the corner of your eye, pinned to the wall like a trophy he’s won.

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