|Me and the Moon
Author: stranger with your doorkey PM
When she looked down, there was blood on her hands. It was wet, she mused, and...and she was sure that it wasn't her own. Why did everything feel so...odd? short story, based on Something Corporate's "Me and the Moon .Rated: Fiction M - English - Drama/Tragedy - Words: 804 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 3 - Follows: 2 - Published: 11-13-10 - Status: Complete - id: 2864223
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Me and the Moon
You marry a role and
You give up your soul
'Til you break down.
When she looked down, there was blood on her hands. It was wet, she mused, and...and she was sure that it wasn't her own.
She looked out of the window dazedly. It was still dark. Why did everything feel so...
She looked down at her dress. More blood. She noticed that there was a speck on the carpet, and another, and another, and she followed it until she reached the kitchen.
"What, this again? Are we really going to have this fight again?"
"If you would just tell me the truth, Andrew, I wouldn't have to..."
"Here you go again. Just like every other fucking day."
"Why are you so mean to me all the time?"
"Grow up. Seriously, Megan, you've got to grow up."
Her shoe slipped and she almost fell. Moonlight streamed through the window and illuminated the milk that was dripping from the counter. She'd almost slipped in milk. She scoffed and shook off her foot. She needed to clean this place up. You couldn't cook dinner in a messy kitchen, that's what her mother had always told her.
"Oh really? You're gonna cry now? What a surprise."
"Did you sleep with her?"
"You're joking, right? I've told you a million times..."
"You've given me a million reasons to not trust you."
"You are a paranoid psycho bitch sometimes, you know that? You seriously are too much to handle. Honestly. I don't even know why I'm here. You're suffocating me."
She tiptoed around the milk and the broken glass. She'd have to sweep and mop now. She skirted another puddle, this one of crimson liquid. She'd have to mop that up, too.
First, though, were her hands. She scrubbed them twice with her favorite hand soap. Most of it came off just fine. She'd wash them again when she was done cleaning.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going, huh? I'm not done talking to you! You gonna lock yourself in the room again? 'Cause I'll leave. I will leave you in a heartbeat, don't delude yourself into thinking that I can't be without you. Get back down here!"
She was humming as she mopped. It was a mix between a Disney song and Chopin but she wasn't really paying much attention. This was new tile...hopefully it wouldn't stain.
After the floor was clean, she cleaned the counters. Then she went upstairs and changed, putting her white dress in to soak. She'd probably have to bleach it later, she thought to herself as she dug around above the washing machine for the carpet cleaner. It was her favorite dress.
"Megan...Meg what the hell are you doing?"
"I asked you not to be so mean."
"Holy shit, Megan, put that down."
"Did you sleep with her? Just tell me the truth."
"I don't - Meg - come on, you're scaring the shit out of me, don't point it at me for God's sakes!"
"Answer me. Now."
"Fuck! Yes, I slept with her. I slept with her, okay? I'm sorry, will you please just-"
She entered the kitchen again. She might have to call someone to clean the carpets in the morning. She wasn't sure the blood would come out. She washed her hands again. There.
She took of her ring and set it on the counter.
Next came salad. The pasta was already done...maybe a bit overcooked. She started chopping the tomatoes.
She was just adding the vinaigrette when the knock on the door came.
"Mrs. Young?" She squinted against the bright blue and red lights and nodded.
The officer was young, probably not even 25. He had a look of confidence about him that only came with naivety.
"Your neighbors called us, Ma'am. They said they heard a gunshot about twenty minutes ago. Is everything alright?"
"Everything's just fine." She answered him truthfully, smiling and tilting her head a little. He squinted at her, and then his hand drifted perhaps unconsciously to his gun.
"Mrs. Young, is that blood on your neck?"
Her neck. She lifted a steady hand and wiped.
"Oh," she murmured, looking at her hand. "I must have missed a spot."
"Mrs. Young, is your husband home?"
"Oh, Andrew?" She blinked and nodded. "Yes. He's in the kitchen."
"May I come inside?"
"Sure," she opened the door wider. "Don't mind the mess, I was just cooking dinner."
She stepped over Andrew's dead body and the bloody gun into the kitchen.
"Would you like a glass of water?"