247 -|- Cleaning up messes
She cleans up his mess, the dinner he found unsuitable. So unsuitable, he declares, that he wouldn't feed it to pigs. That doesn't stop him from throwing it on the floor and sticking her face in it.
Bad dog. Disgusting pig. Look at what you've done.
She cries, not because she's hurt, or even humiliated. No, she lost all pride years ago, he beat it out of her. She's crying because she tried so very hard and now it's going to waste. He kicks her in the side and she wines like a dog, scurrying away from him and cowering against the corner cupboards.
Clean it up, this shit, this mess. Clean the whole fucking thing up. He turns to leave the kitchen but pauses, and stop your fucking crying. Jesus, it's annoying.
There have been other messes before this one, small ones, big ones. Messes having to do with money, with kool-aid, and sometimes blood. She says nothing but cleans up what he demands she clean. So she begins, she searches for her rubber gloves, for the sponge and Comet that really can get the most appalling stains out of almost anything. Except she can't find them.
Marinara crusted around her mouth, drying on the floor, and she can't find the fucking Comet. Life as she knows it, comes to a stand still.
if the police asked her, after the incident, why she did it, she probably would have told them the truth, she couldn't find the Comet, or the gloves, or the sponge. The necessities of her life.
So, she did what any sane woman would do. Blow her abusive husband's head off with a 12 gauge shot gun and then turn it on herself. Because while it might not be right to cry over spilled milk, sometimes you just have to get a little homicidal over chicken marinara.
Now it's my mess to clean up.
(327)
Bad dog. Disgusting pig. Look at what you've done.
She cries, not because she's hurt, or even humiliated. No, she lost all pride years ago, he beat it out of her. She's crying because she tried so very hard and now it's going to waste. He kicks her in the side and she wines like a dog, scurrying away from him and cowering against the corner cupboards.
Clean it up, this shit, this mess. Clean the whole fucking thing up. He turns to leave the kitchen but pauses, and stop your fucking crying. Jesus, it's annoying.
There have been other messes before this one, small ones, big ones. Messes having to do with money, with kool-aid, and sometimes blood. She says nothing but cleans up what he demands she clean. So she begins, she searches for her rubber gloves, for the sponge and Comet that really can get the most appalling stains out of almost anything. Except she can't find them.
Marinara crusted around her mouth, drying on the floor, and she can't find the fucking Comet. Life as she knows it, comes to a stand still.
if the police asked her, after the incident, why she did it, she probably would have told them the truth, she couldn't find the Comet, or the gloves, or the sponge. The necessities of her life.
So, she did what any sane woman would do. Blow her abusive husband's head off with a 12 gauge shot gun and then turn it on herself. Because while it might not be right to cry over spilled milk, sometimes you just have to get a little homicidal over chicken marinara.
Now it's my mess to clean up.
(327)