Night has begun its claim; spreading dark fingers
around the world of human lives.
Within a house deserted by love a figure moves
slowly among the shuttered shadows. Someone moves from room to room, searching
for an answer among the remnants of a painfully remembered past.
He tried to see it the way it was, attempted
rationality. Mirrors show us what we want to see; but sometimes we look into
the living, human mirrors and then briefly the fantasising has to stop.
Once again, he had reached their bedroom. He smiled
bitterly as the memories of the love nest it had been swarmed around his mind,
refusing to be forgotten, pushed away.
She lay there sleeping, in semi-darkness; half
dead, half dying. Before the affair he had believed in love; now he only
believed in death because to him it was the only thing that existed with the
promise of being fulfilled by every life; surer than life and fictional gods.
And if he let her have the baby it would be to him
a lifelong reminder of wife’s painful unfaithfulness.
He wanted to destroy that part of her which had
turned away, and to hold on more desperately than before to the woman who had a
place in her life for him.
She had called it a childish fling, a meaningless
inconsistency which could be forgotten – but for the baby. Yet she must have
felt something for him, somewhere deep inside the bottomless pit of her heart.
She must have needed, must have wanted, must have loved him. If only for those
few brief moments.
And he loathed her honesty. She could have said it
was his child. She could have lied to show she cared. Yet she chose to hurt him
with her truth. She stabbed him in the heart, then twisted the knife. Her
honesty repelled him. He tried to love her, but the more he forced himself, the
more intensely repugnance surged through him.
His hand drifted restlessly over her sleeping body
and lay on her neck.
A warm glow filled him, a replacement of something
lost. He tightened his murderous grip. The warm glow was followed by another.
And then another.
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