Mark watched the stains in the carpet grow bigger and bigger.
Like a meditation moment, just seeing the spots get bigger and bigger. Except that, for a good meditation, the ambient should be quiet and calm. Silent. But Deborah’s screams simply wouldn’t cease so easily.
So Mark picked up a tool.
He lifted it. He lowered it. Again. Again. Tireless waving with the tool. His silhouette through the windows casted the shadow of a painter. Up and down, his arm went. Up and down. The utensil in the shadow looked like a brush, drops of the ink kept spoiling the carpet. Red drops and stains from a deep red portrait.
Mark couldn’t make any sense of what Deborah said. No problem. In the end, it didn’t matter a bit. It was their wedding, a special date. Nothing would ever ruin that beautiful moment.
In. out. The blade did a fantastic job, guided by Mark’s hand. All of that life leaking from her body and not a single visible wound. It’d be a shame to ruin her. So lovely. Bright white and dark red in a wedding dress he bought her when he promised he’d never leave.
He never did.
A minute or so later, Deborah stopped screaming and sat still. Gorgeous. Mark fixed the tie in his tuxedo and sat next to her for the happy photo. Click. Flash. Done.
Mark was so pleased, he stood up. Almost jumping.
Waiting for Deborah’s body to start moving again.
Then he put a gun to his own chest. Click. Flash. Done. And after a minute he was raising too.
He felt brand new. Took his wife by the hand.
And together they went for the little wedding cake, the one who was chained in the nearby room.
So juicy. So good. So like a fairy tale.
Happily ever after.