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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A truly dark story of a troubled mind.

Submitted: May 16, 2013

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Submitted: May 16, 2013





I must dispel this sense of foreboding, this hungry animal of indignant feelings that feed’s on my very soul. For if I do not malice will take its place.

For the past month I have gradually sunk to the lowest ebb, my emotions are ragged. My body tired of the internal conflict that threatens to over throw my very sanity. Still long hours provide passage to my inner voice who like a malevolent devil conjures up images

and allows the drama to play in the theater of my mind. A performance like no other, each scene compounds my jealous rage; there is no antidote for hate. And yet

a sound or smell refreshes me for a period affording joyful recollections of a young love, innocent of the turmoil that matrimony and age bestows . Oh how once we were members

of that carefree institution- and then the honeymoon ends.


Life then becomes a habit- like your warmest winter coat; even when you’ve out grown it still you can’t discard it. The adhesive of love can melt just like an autumn frost, but I cannot say for sure when the rime set in.


Was the evidence there and perhaps I just didn’t see it, were the clue’s evident and I choose to ignore them? - In any event I am here, a prisoner of my own covetous sprite.

When in the night I yearn for release, still they linger, insecurity and contempt.

Oh what wickedness still lies beside me, no doubt content in her perverse dreams of another- her midnight moans are not of pain more over a fragmented pleasure recalled.

Whilst devoid of my own slumber I lie and stare at the ceiling combating with my

inner turmoil  that her affair my be of my construction. I twist and turn in what seems an endless night, and then my determination rises, before dawn-tomorrow she must confess. My confrontation will show no mercy, she will admit to her adultery-I expect no less.

But when the morning comes as there have been many others my Dutch courage has vanished like a phantom and left my feelings sober, she smiles across the breakfast table at me and I return the gesture. But my manner is without conviction- a painted face, a mask of deprivation. We seldom speak much albeit we are alone; conversation is meaningless unless the topic is shared with sincerity, but although when I try to brooch the subject of her last evening out and who she was with, she charges me with interference and vacates the discussion, leaving an abyss of silence. In these moments |I hate her.


Sometimes the phone rings but when I answer the line goes suddenly dead- and always the number is withheld, this fuels my anxiety and fills up the well of my anger. My frustration in my compulsory solitude is then aimed at the very same device. After which I imagine him breathing, his heart racing.I hold the handset, staring, wishing-willing him dead by my thoughts alone. But I know this cannot happen.

I am weak, I know that. What other man would allow this situation to continue, a better man would be direct, confront her say things like–‘It’s him or me’- ‘what does he offer you that I cannot’? -  Am I afraid of the truth? - Honestly? – Yes. I fear that most of all.

So I hold my tongue, pretending that nothing has changed, but deep down I loath her deception, sometimes in my moments of deepest despair evil thoughts invade my reason,

the malevolence takes form .I see the knife grasped in my blood drenched hand, her crimson life force dripping onto the bedroom carpet. The gaping throat wound gurgling as she tries to suck in her last dying breath.

My feeling of repulsion and liberation compounds into a drug, as she lies prone on our martial bed, her eyes wide and terrified at my covert revenge. All the while I am detached from myself overcome with the intoxication of deliverance.

Still I must persuade myself that these actions must remain forever a cerebral illusion, for I have neither the courage nor the strength of character to deliver. Conclusion is evident- she has won.

Now that I concede I feel a weight has lifted from my shoulders, the fog of detestation has at last begun to thin letting in the sunshine of clarity. I shall wait until her next digression.

I must prepare with secrecy, the act will lose potency if detected early-my regret will be that I shall not see her face when her eyes befall my finale, and my worry is that the rope will hold my weight and carry me swiftly into the realm of serenity that I yearn for.

My note shall read simply-‘Life needs love to survive’


A short story by Will Neill March 2007


© Copyright 2017 Will Neill. All rights reserved.

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