I suppose all marriages suffer under the relentless passage of time to some extent. People grow, sometimes in different directions, and by the time you realise this, it’s already too late. I can understand this. I can accept it even. Ron and I were a match made in heaven. Everyone said so. Perfect for each other. All the clichés. And for the longest time I think we both bought into the lie that we’d always love each other. No matter what. Sometimes love just isn’t enough, though. Is love enough when he works late every goddamn night? Is love enough when he comes home at three in the morning reeking of alcohol? Is love enough when you find some other woman's clothes in your car? Is love enough when he withdraws emotionally, and stops talking to you? Is love enough then? The answer you’re looking for would nine out of ten times be a loud resounding NO. But all depressing statistics aside, I still had hopes for us. I’m not a quitter. I don’t give up so easily. In the end I confronted him. Put him against the wall. Told him I knew, knew exactly what was going on. But I also told him I was willing to work on it. Willing to do my best to understand why he did the things he did. Why he felt the need to do all that behind my back. Why he couldn’t talk about it. And you know, we got through it. In a manner of speaking anyway. It took some adjustments for sure, but I think you’d be surprised at how much one is willing to sacrifice to save a marriage. I guess, in the end, you could say it was all worth it? So when I opened the basement door late last night, finding him busy at work with some young, blonde girl, I won’t lie, there were some powerful emotions involved. I instinctively grabbed the knife. Real sharp one. Felt the grip dig deep into my palm. I guess I was about halfway down the stairs when he noticed me. “Honey,” he said somberly, an anguished expression staining his face, sweat dripping down his brow. He knew what was happening. I knew what was happening. The girl? Didn’t even see it coming. I pointed the knife at the young, blonde thing, her neck blue and discolored, the rest of her pale as snow, dull dead eyes staring at me accusedly. “You need help,” I said. He nodded weakly. I stared at the broken thing, an endless array of conflicting thoughts racing through my head. “Show me how to dismember her then.”

Story is told by hyperobscura

Ohhhh, wow- loved this!


Indigo Flower

This is awesome and Amazing!!!