I hear them giggle. I feel them wiggle. I smell an unknown scent. My wife is with another man and a rage I have suppressed for a decade surfaces.
Why I carry a knife I do not know, but I do and it feels good in my palm. I act before they stir.
I stab and thrust and slice and cut and power my way through the virgin white duvet cover that shimmers in the moonlight. The fact Helen has bought a new cover, replacing the green one I chose, only increases my rage. For five long minutes, I finally show her who’s boss.
When done, I am tired but glad. I reach for the light switch which slips into my wet fingers as it should. A swift flick and we have illumination.
The bed is red. The room is red. Everything, everywhere is a liquid crimson. I look down. My new shoes are splattered beyond repair. This is the final straw. I storm out of our bedroom, down the creaking stairs and out onto the crunching gravel and scream a scream to wake God himself.
There is a click from the adjacent house and an upstairs window opens.
“What are you doing, love?” says a woman who looks just like Helen.
“Just breaking in my new shoes,” I reply, as I wipe the knife on my trousers.