This short story is based on the song “Hold On Til May” by Pierce The Veil
This short story is about the desperate measures a woman takes to gain her independence.
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“Well, last night. Where were you?”
The question pierced into the pores of my skin, expanding the minute, freckled dips in my skin, as I hoped the question would pass over like any other question I was asked on a day-to-day basis like “What’s for dinner?” or “Where are my washed socks?”. That’s all I was asked nowadays; my family didn’t consider my feelings at all; my family didn’t consider my response to their actions at all; personally, I do not even think they considered me at all.
The room I’m sat in is high up on the London skyline, a seriously splash-cash apartment, because my husband is an architect – this apartment is a gift from his company: he would never spend money on the house, on the family or even me, his wife, who he had vowed to support for the rest of his life.
Staring out the window, I looked to the restless city beneath me, observing every single movement that occurred. For every step that someone carried forward, my eyes flashed in an attempt to police every single crime that could be committed on the concrete floor below. My eyes were forced to constantly experience the foolish blend of colours – a mere black (from the various suits and jackets), a dull grey (as the buildings around my apartment were boring) and the brown (of bricks and old architecture that blessed London).
I saw my husbands eyes dart around the skyline, conscientiously following my own. He also sat like me, facing the skyline in front of us, assessing, or should I say, attempting to assess the life beneath us. He always tried this; in his own small mind, trying to think like me would make him think he was fulfilling his duties as a husband.
Well , he was a spiteful toe-rag who obviously didn’t.
He carefully lifted up his mug of coffee (that he had ignorantly made with expired milk) and his slices of toast (which was made from bread littered with fungi, which again he foolishly didn’t notice), and walked through the arched door that led onto the balcony.
As he had ducked to walk under the arched door, I had noticed a cold stare in his eyes as he cynically looked towards me, already conveying how he thought I had let him down. His white shirt stuck out of his trousers, with various creases protruding from it.
Well, if he didn’t repeat his idiotic question in that patronising, questionable tone, maybe, he would still be alive at this moment. As he had stepped onto the balcony and said “Where were you?”, I walked up behind him, caressed him, convinced him I had gone to a party and made his previously cold stare cadaverous.
He had confidently stepped onto the balcony, and I had carefully crept up behind him, comforted him and then immediately, bid adieu to him forever. His shirt was soaked in a pool of blood on the London floor, mixing a strong red into the otherwise blacks and greys. His arms lay spread on the floor, in the form of a free eagle and freedom, which he had never granted me. Birds pecked at his own body, which now lay rotten on the London tarmac.
He was dead.
Remorse did not enter me as I walked through, back to my apartment, dialled “999” and called the police to my house. When the policemen finally came, I made sure my eyes were swollen with tears. I cried to my heart’s content.
They believed me.