The Eyes Are Grey.
'What do you want?'
It was a harsh, curt female voice. It was cold like winter air, like when you've just gotten out of a warm bed, the way it hits you, it makes you gasp. He was a full-grown man, clean-shaven, with eyes bluer and deeper than the sea. His hair was a mop of autumn-colored leaf, the shades of brown and orange and red and burgundy.
She was like a stark contrast. It was so amazing how opposites attract; she used to be warm, loving, with curly locks of black hair framing her heart-shaped face. The curly black locks were still there, but matted and oily and greasy, uncared for, no longer lovingly combed with that silver brush he had given her on their first anniversary.
Her slim face was gaunt, hunger and fatigue touching her hollow cheeks, painting dark eye circles and bags beneath her once twinkling eyes. They were a hard, solid shade of platinum steel, cold and unloving.
'I-I-' he stuttered, his courage failing him once more. His eyes stung with tears, forcefully blinking them away, he shied away from her piercing gaze. It was so like him, to cower away from problems.
'You what! She hollered back, her thin lips mouthing the words. He watched her lips move, reminiscing the days where those lips tasted sweet like honey, with twinges of lemon in it. It looked cracked and dry, and her breath was foul, laced with a choking cigarette odor and alcohol. Her cheeks flushed red from the intoxication of alcohol; her eyes were colder than ever, slightly sleepy. Her temper was not at all dampened, in fact, more aggravated.
Iris used to be a warm girl. Her dark hair complimented her smiling gray eyes well; dimples framing her lips often attracted a good amount of attention. He was too a warm man, handsomely tousled hair and irresistible blue eyes invited plenty of women into his life. They were like a match made in heaven; the beautiful intelligent deep girl and the handsome clever rich man. Everyone thought they were such perfection that it almost didn't seem believable.
Of course, things were never perfect. Her miscarriage in the second year of their marriage unlocked her wild side. In an attempt to search for comfort for her pain, she indulged in activities she had never dared to even imagine; drinking, smoking, fooling around, and occasionally drugs. Her pain never lessened. Sometimes at night, she would wake up in realization of her wrongdoing and weep, bawling for Joseph. She would cry to him, apologizing through tears and mucus that she didn't mean everything, and the very next day after Joseph had forgiven her, she flares up and got physical.
Joseph lived in constant self-denial, telling himself she was going to change, she was just a caterpillar, still in the ugly shell, but will burst out a beautiful butterfly. It was obviously a tale of falsehood, something he had spun for his own comfort. He was too much like a child, so used to escaping all his problems so his mother and father could shoulder it. He was so used to it, that he didn't even pull himself free from the habit as he entered society.
He would bear everything the vile woman throws into his face; he was confounded. She was like a woman of many identities. Sometimes, she would cry her eyes out; other times, she was like a mad bull, destroying everything in her path and screaming her lungs out. She was uncontrollable, and Joseph couldn't do anything but attempt feebly at pacifying her, often failing.
He cowered away from the woman once more. A full-grown man, scraping the floor with his sock-covered feet, backing himself up against the wall, as if he pushed back hard enough, he would go through the wall and escape from this nightmarish scene.
She advanced closer, her tall figure towering over the man. The light behind her outlined her anorexic frame in a halo, shadowing her face, darkening her sinister expression. She was no angel; how ill fitting the halo deemed to be! Their eyes met for a brief quarter of a second, before the blue pair shifted away. Bony but long fingers any piano teacher would be proud of curled tightly around the neck of an empty bottle that reeked strongly of alcohol. In the other hand, a chopper.
'Stop it, please!' he pleaded, blue eyes wide, his pupils almost trembling with fear. He eyed the chopper uneasily, and attempted feebly to back himself up the wall again. Tension built up in his tiny frame; her cold gray eyes almost glowed red with the unreasonable fury that burnt inside her.
'You told me the baby I lost wasn't my fault, but I hear her complaining about it every day!' she screeched. Joseph knew who that'her' referred to; his mother, her mother in law.
'Calm down, Iris, it really isn't your fault,'said Joseph, taking advantage of the situation. 'That old woman's weird. She's talking nonsense!' His courage returned, and his sweet-talker mode was instantly switched on.
'No!' she advanced. She was now within an inch from his nose; her eyes boring straight into his, her breath crawling over his face. Tears washed down her cheeks; she spoke the last words.
'This is all a mistake, Joseph.'
The dull clunk of metal against the wall; decapitated, skull hitting the hard tiles. Blood. Screaming; throat tearing, she strained her vocal chords to mourn her husband. Sepia-colored memories of them flooded her mind; from their honeymoon, to the moment she found blood running down her thighs, to the days she laid alone on the couch, waiting for her husband to come home. The digital clock reads 4.am, he comes home, soundlessly, and no greeting, no kiss and hugs like the time she was pregnant.
The bottle fell onto the floor, exploding into a myriad of glass shards and leftover alcohol. It was like a firework, but just not that beautiful; she sank onto her knees, not at all sobbing, gasps tearing her lungs apart. With the last bit of energy, she raised the chopper – glowing red in the sunset – she ended her misery.
Night passed, day came, men in blue wrenched open the gates, finding two corpses. No breathing, wife lying on top of decapitated husband – a shower of blood painting the stories before their death.