I had never intended on killing my husband. But I did. I sat gazing out the window. The windowsill was cool against my bare legs. Heat blew from the radiator beneath it. I had been sitting there for what felt like a few minutes, but the ticking clock on the wall told me otherwise. I sat, shoulder pressed up against the chilly window, watching the glass fog and clear. I took a long drag from my cigarette and dusted the ashes. The distorted blinking red and green lights from outside soothed me. Christmas. Snowflakes drifted, the wind blew—a sea of gray haze. I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes, the warmth of my eyelids caused a chill to grace my lower back. Exhale.

The soft drum of my heart echoed throughout the living room. The empty wine bottle grew heavy in my numbed hand. I looked down to see if the bottle had dropped to the floor, or if my mind was playing tricks on me again. While searching for the thick green bottle I found comfort at the sight that lie no more than ten feet away from me. The hardwood floor, stained with the life that used to pump through his veins. It trailed footprints that that led to the window sill. It pooled around his curled blue fingers, and soaked through the sleeve of his white shirt. Face down, his body seemed weighted—lifeless. He looked uncomfortable, but his comfort was not of my concern anymore.

I sat up, still staring. My thoughts were clouded with the image of his final facial expression, his last words, his last breath. They cycled over and over and over again, a film clip on repeat. I stood, my feet still damp and sticky with blood, and walked towards him. On the table, which had been displaced earlier, was another half empty bottle of wine. Sitting next to his unmoving form I drank what was left of it. Tears began to fall.

I was never a dramatic crier. No wails, no moans, just silent tears streaming down my cheeks. He had always disliked that about me. He associated it to the soul that I didn’t have, ‘emotionless tears’ he used to call them. I inhaled and took a final pull from my cigarette. You just couldn’t let me rest for one day could you?

“Just one damn day!” I yelled, but no one heard.

My chest heaved. I was angry again. He’d done it to me, again. Even in death he couldn’t give me one moment of peace. I hated him for that. How is it that I always fall victim to your overbearing ways?  I guess I loved him too much, if such a thing was possible. Golden brown eyes, chestnut hair, dimples that could hold water—perfection. Or at least I thought he was. Tears still streamed down my face as I cursed him. After everything he’d done to me, I despised him. But yet I loved him…loved who he used to be.

I jumped to my feet. “Why? Did I do nothing right? Didn’t I give you everything?”

My throat was dry from yelling. Swallowing hard I paced the small distance from his body to the couch. The disgust I felt for him pooled in my chest like water from a faucet. I hurled the empty bottle of wine across the room. It shattered against the wall sending our anniversary pictures crashing to the floor. I felt like screaming. For all the years I surrendered my own personal happiness for his, for the many nights I lay in our bed feeling abandoned and used. I wanted to scream. Yell until my voice gave out. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything. I’d done everything I could possibly do.

Silence.

The fireplace crackled, burning embers floated every-so-often from the blaze. The amber flames danced like silk. The fire in my marriage had died only months after we wed. Try as I may, I could not salvage it. There was nothing but vacant ritual and heartless words. The void grew larger until it consumed us. We came to despise each other. I hated him for not loving me and he remained unsatisfied. If I would have known that only three years into my supposed happily married life would be anything but happy, I would’ve run from the altar and never looked back.

He eventually found other means of entertainment, other women to fulfill his desires. I was no longer enough for him. I doubted he wanted anything from me other than separation. I blamed tradition. Why did I have to believe in making things work? I knew they never would. If only I had gotten out before things took a violent turn for the worse.