He stood in front of the bathroom mirror scrutinizing his face, leaning in closer till the mirror kissed his mouth; he examined his forehead, checked his right cheek, then his left.. probed his jaw line with an index finger and traced it to his chin.
"two more bruises today" he murmured exasperated.
Lifting his head he checked the reflection of his neck in the mirror. "The ones from last week are slowly fading. They're yellow and not too noticeable" he sighed.
A restrained knock on the bathroom door "your breakfast is getting cold"
He said nothing, and continued with his bruise investigation. "There's a small one near the eye and it's red and maroon. So that makes three today"
"what did you say? your breakfast is getting cold" the voice interrupted his bruise survey again.
"I'll be right out (and eat the poison you insist on serving me every morning that you like to call breakfast)"
Expressionless and cautious he sat at the table, staring at the now cooling bowl of sweetened oats and milk that stared back at him with a slowly congealing wink. It had dried fruits and nuts "and probably a vial of low quality cyanide, that'll kill me slowly"
"What are you doing? won't you have your breakfast?"
His wife looked at him concerned. She was a thin woman who might have possibly looked pretty had she not been so bent on looking haggard. She carried a fatigued aura around her which was positively vibrant with gaunt this morning and looked like she might start twitching any moment now.
"Have your breakfast dear" she looked at her husband and would have almost tried a smile had her husband not shot her his usual premeditated cruel look that he seemed to have perfected in the last few months of their six month old marriage. This look, combined with a soul shattering ruthless pursing of the lips almost always managed to kill whatever little smile her lips had tried to muster up in hours.
"I don't think I'm hungry" he pushed away his bowl of oats and left for work.
"There's a fresh bruise under my lip..deep red and pink around the edges. hmm. so that's four bruises today. Did she touch me while I was at the breakfast table?" he was scanning his face in his office washroom; the tip of his index finger put gentle pressure on the fleshy parts of his face as he interrogated his visage repeatedly for dark spots of fresh bruises.
He suddenly remembered "she was trying to fix my collar. What's to stop her from slyly giving me a bruise. My face is a salad of hurt and it's slowly becoming numb to pain"
It was as natural as breathing for him to carefully peruse the expressions of all those who spoke to him to notice any changes in their facial intonations on account of his spotted collage look that he'd began sporting in the last few months.
No one seemed to ask him about the colourful potpourri of bruises on his face, no one even seemed to recognize it. "They hide it too well lest I get offended. What a world of hypocrites"
He resented going back home to eating married portions of unhappy meals that he knew for a fact were poisoned. He cursed night times even more so when he grudgingly slept on the farthest corner of their marital bed, fending off sleep for as long as his eyes might allow and waking up to fresher darker, uglier bruises everyday..all over his face. He hated it. He hated it all. He hated his wife for slowly trying to kill him.
Dinner was an insipid meal of generic curry and lackluster rice and he glared at it, waiting for it to leap out of the plate and choke him to death.
"Are you not hungry dear?" his wife sat next to him, looked at him pleadingly. Diffidently she stretched out her arm and slowly brushed his knuckles with her fingers. "How was your day?"
He fixed his focus on the knuckles that his wife had dared to caress and noticed a streak of reddening bruise all along his ring finger. His knuckles felt hot and raw. The pain was searing through the veins of his hand and burnt his entire arm. His heart was beating loud, face flushed with fresh hate "I won't let you kill me" he glowered.
Before her eyes could even widen in surprise, he had got hold of her face and was forcing her mouth open. Brutally digging his finger in the hollow of her cheeks, he scooped up spoonfuls of hot curry and rice and pushed it down her throat..stuffing it down her gullet in heaping mounds.
Her arms were flying, trying to push him away, tears streaming down her eyes her feet were kicking under the dining table..uselessly.
Shoving spoonfuls down her choking throat, she had long since stopped coughing and lay inert.
"You want to kill me with your poison. How about you taste it first" he was shouting, growling to her dead face, still pushing in food that now spilled out her full mouth.
There was no more opposition from her end. Her haggard face no more gaunt and tired, looked paralyzed with peace and she almost looked pretty for a hateful second.
He let go of her and she lifelessly plopped to the floor.
He had the entire bed to himself and slept fitfully like he'd never before in the last six months. When was the last time he woke up so fresh? he couldn't remember.
Exploring his face next morning there was not a bruise to be found. Clean, spotless, brand new. Was this his face he recalled from all these days? His bruises were gone..extinct.
He'd forgotten how handsome he was capable of looking..living in a gaunt shadow of impending death he'd gotten so used to that splotchy face that he didn't recognize the smiling man in the mirror.
This morning he fixed his breakfast with a relish. A simple sandwich with whatever jarred condiments he could forage in the fridge and carefully avoided stepping on his wife's corpse while pulling out a chair to sit on the dining table. Rigor mortis had set in and the woman looked like she'd never twitch anymore. "Never try to poison me anymore"
He wanted to laugh, to guffaw, to mock her in her dead face between mouthfuls of his carefully prepared sandwich, but suddenly he couldn't breathe.
"ackkkk. ackkkk" he was beginning to wheeze. The room was spinning around and he was spluttering. He felt his face swell, his nostrils were obstructed and he was gagging on his sandwich. Mercilessly coughing he was trying to trap air in his full mouth to inhale some life..uselessly. He thumped his chest to push the food out his pipe while reddening with breathlessness. Falling to the floor, he hoped he'd throw up, but something inside his throat was strangling him. Clawing in the air for support "gggggggg" he knew this was the end.
He tried to exhale but no air let itself out in and his face had swollen to melon proportions. Half eaten sandwich lay on the floor and a thick ooze of mustard flowed out of it. His dying seconds gave way to surprise and a sudden grasp of this helplessly laughable situation.
"she poisoned every goddamn food in this house. ackk. ggggg"
"two more bruises today" he murmured exasperated.
Lifting his head he checked the reflection of his neck in the mirror. "The ones from last week are slowly fading. They're yellow and not too noticeable" he sighed.
A restrained knock on the bathroom door "your breakfast is getting cold"
He said nothing, and continued with his bruise investigation. "There's a small one near the eye and it's red and maroon. So that makes three today"
"what did you say? your breakfast is getting cold" the voice interrupted his bruise survey again.
"I'll be right out (and eat the poison you insist on serving me every morning that you like to call breakfast)"
Expressionless and cautious he sat at the table, staring at the now cooling bowl of sweetened oats and milk that stared back at him with a slowly congealing wink. It had dried fruits and nuts "and probably a vial of low quality cyanide, that'll kill me slowly"
"What are you doing? won't you have your breakfast?"
His wife looked at him concerned. She was a thin woman who might have possibly looked pretty had she not been so bent on looking haggard. She carried a fatigued aura around her which was positively vibrant with gaunt this morning and looked like she might start twitching any moment now.
"Have your breakfast dear" she looked at her husband and would have almost tried a smile had her husband not shot her his usual premeditated cruel look that he seemed to have perfected in the last few months of their six month old marriage. This look, combined with a soul shattering ruthless pursing of the lips almost always managed to kill whatever little smile her lips had tried to muster up in hours.
"I don't think I'm hungry" he pushed away his bowl of oats and left for work.
"There's a fresh bruise under my lip..deep red and pink around the edges. hmm. so that's four bruises today. Did she touch me while I was at the breakfast table?" he was scanning his face in his office washroom; the tip of his index finger put gentle pressure on the fleshy parts of his face as he interrogated his visage repeatedly for dark spots of fresh bruises.
He suddenly remembered "she was trying to fix my collar. What's to stop her from slyly giving me a bruise. My face is a salad of hurt and it's slowly becoming numb to pain"
It was as natural as breathing for him to carefully peruse the expressions of all those who spoke to him to notice any changes in their facial intonations on account of his spotted collage look that he'd began sporting in the last few months.
No one seemed to ask him about the colourful potpourri of bruises on his face, no one even seemed to recognize it. "They hide it too well lest I get offended. What a world of hypocrites"
He resented going back home to eating married portions of unhappy meals that he knew for a fact were poisoned. He cursed night times even more so when he grudgingly slept on the farthest corner of their marital bed, fending off sleep for as long as his eyes might allow and waking up to fresher darker, uglier bruises everyday..all over his face. He hated it. He hated it all. He hated his wife for slowly trying to kill him.
Dinner was an insipid meal of generic curry and lackluster rice and he glared at it, waiting for it to leap out of the plate and choke him to death.
"Are you not hungry dear?" his wife sat next to him, looked at him pleadingly. Diffidently she stretched out her arm and slowly brushed his knuckles with her fingers. "How was your day?"
He fixed his focus on the knuckles that his wife had dared to caress and noticed a streak of reddening bruise all along his ring finger. His knuckles felt hot and raw. The pain was searing through the veins of his hand and burnt his entire arm. His heart was beating loud, face flushed with fresh hate "I won't let you kill me" he glowered.
Before her eyes could even widen in surprise, he had got hold of her face and was forcing her mouth open. Brutally digging his finger in the hollow of her cheeks, he scooped up spoonfuls of hot curry and rice and pushed it down her throat..stuffing it down her gullet in heaping mounds.
Her arms were flying, trying to push him away, tears streaming down her eyes her feet were kicking under the dining table..uselessly.
Shoving spoonfuls down her choking throat, she had long since stopped coughing and lay inert.
"You want to kill me with your poison. How about you taste it first" he was shouting, growling to her dead face, still pushing in food that now spilled out her full mouth.
There was no more opposition from her end. Her haggard face no more gaunt and tired, looked paralyzed with peace and she almost looked pretty for a hateful second.
He let go of her and she lifelessly plopped to the floor.
He had the entire bed to himself and slept fitfully like he'd never before in the last six months. When was the last time he woke up so fresh? he couldn't remember.
Exploring his face next morning there was not a bruise to be found. Clean, spotless, brand new. Was this his face he recalled from all these days? His bruises were gone..extinct.
He'd forgotten how handsome he was capable of looking..living in a gaunt shadow of impending death he'd gotten so used to that splotchy face that he didn't recognize the smiling man in the mirror.
This morning he fixed his breakfast with a relish. A simple sandwich with whatever jarred condiments he could forage in the fridge and carefully avoided stepping on his wife's corpse while pulling out a chair to sit on the dining table. Rigor mortis had set in and the woman looked like she'd never twitch anymore. "Never try to poison me anymore"
He wanted to laugh, to guffaw, to mock her in her dead face between mouthfuls of his carefully prepared sandwich, but suddenly he couldn't breathe.
"ackkkk. ackkkk" he was beginning to wheeze. The room was spinning around and he was spluttering. He felt his face swell, his nostrils were obstructed and he was gagging on his sandwich. Mercilessly coughing he was trying to trap air in his full mouth to inhale some life..uselessly. He thumped his chest to push the food out his pipe while reddening with breathlessness. Falling to the floor, he hoped he'd throw up, but something inside his throat was strangling him. Clawing in the air for support "gggggggg" he knew this was the end.
He tried to exhale but no air let itself out in and his face had swollen to melon proportions. Half eaten sandwich lay on the floor and a thick ooze of mustard flowed out of it. His dying seconds gave way to surprise and a sudden grasp of this helplessly laughable situation.
"she poisoned every goddamn food in this house. ackk. ggggg"
Poison Ivy.
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