222 -|- Sleeping on the Couch
He was tired, tired of her nagging, of the way she picked at him - tearing him down, bit by bit. She hated the way he dressed, he ate, the way that he watched TV. At night, when he crawled into bed, she hated the way he slept, and the way he snored. That's how he ended up on the couch in the den, and from then on that's where he slept. The couch hurt his back, and he couldn't stretch out the way he wanted to, but at least he could Jerk off. She hated that too, when he touched her, or even when he touched himself. The beautiful, sweet woman he had married had turned into a bitter, angry shrew, and, after time - he hated her too.
He didn't know when he snapped, maybe when she turned his kids on him, the disgusted looks from them, and the sneers were enough to send him over the edge.
At night, he laid on the couch, the lumpy couch with the spring that poked him in the back, and waited for the house to settle. When he could hear the clock in the hall, and nothing else - he got up and walked down the hall to the master bedroom. The room that use to be his, the one he shared with his wife. His wife, now passed out, sprawled on the bed, her face covered with some sort of night mask - her hair in curlers, and her mouth open in a snore.
Without a flicker of emotion he picked up the pillow he use to sleep on and pushed it against her face. There was a struggle, but he expected that, and he easily out weighted her, and the more she fought the harder he pushed. When she didn't even twitch, and her chest no longer rose and fell, he pulled the pillow back. The cold cream was smeared over her face, hair around her cheeks and her mouth open as if she was going to yell at him, again.
With a satisfied grunt, he turned and walked back to his couch in the den and fell into the deepest, happiest sleep of his marriage.
(378)
He didn't know when he snapped, maybe when she turned his kids on him, the disgusted looks from them, and the sneers were enough to send him over the edge.
At night, he laid on the couch, the lumpy couch with the spring that poked him in the back, and waited for the house to settle. When he could hear the clock in the hall, and nothing else - he got up and walked down the hall to the master bedroom. The room that use to be his, the one he shared with his wife. His wife, now passed out, sprawled on the bed, her face covered with some sort of night mask - her hair in curlers, and her mouth open in a snore.
Without a flicker of emotion he picked up the pillow he use to sleep on and pushed it against her face. There was a struggle, but he expected that, and he easily out weighted her, and the more she fought the harder he pushed. When she didn't even twitch, and her chest no longer rose and fell, he pulled the pillow back. The cold cream was smeared over her face, hair around her cheeks and her mouth open as if she was going to yell at him, again.
With a satisfied grunt, he turned and walked back to his couch in the den and fell into the deepest, happiest sleep of his marriage.
(378)