The color black.
December writing prompt #1:
The room was dark as pitch, the only light coming from the soft glow of the television. He wouldn't be home for a few hours yet; he was working the late shift tonight. If she was going to do it, she had to do it now.
She opened the laptop, opened a new tab, typed in the address: Facebook. Good, she thought, he's still logged on.
She felt a twinge of guilt; she knew what she was doing was wrong, it was a huge invasion of privacy. He would be furious when he found out.
But what choice did she have, really? He had left her with no other options. She knew he had been lying to her, and she was so, so tired. All she wanted was faithfulness and trust, and she feared she had lost both long ago.
I just need to know. I can't get out of this unless I know for sure.She didn't know what she'd do with the information once she had it, but the questions gnawed at her like some ravenous, insatiable beast.
Maybe I'm just being paranoid. The pointer hovered over the message icon, her finger caressing the mouse. She paused for a moment, held her breath, until the air in her lungs burned with frustration and jealousy. She breathed out as she clicked the mouse, opening his messages.
There they were, all of them. Every woman he had sworn he didn't even talk to anymore, every flirtatious message, every promise he'd made to her gone. There were so many, some of them her friends, most of them strangers. And they were all so pretty.
She sighed and rubbed her temple with her free hand. I fucking knew it, she thought, as she began the torturous chore of going through each message individually. She would need a lot of bullets in her belt for the upcoming argument.
#writewithlairo