"Call me that again and I'll kill you." She screamed across the barrier of the double bed that he'd leaped across to escape her. The swimming pool of duvet and crumpled clothes that had been strewn across, made his crossing all the more difficult. Once safely on the other side he made a run for the doorway. With a slither of wooden door to protect him from the torrent of insults and abuse she was hurling at him, he noticed that she now held the vase his mother had given them as a Christmas present the previous year and was wielding it in his direction. He ducked behind the door to avoid firstly the hate arrows that were protruding from her eyes, raised and ready to aim for her target and secondly the vase which followed in quick succession. The arrows missed him by an inch, but the vase swiftly struck him on the side of his forehead, which had been peeking out slightly to keep a look out for the enemy. The last thing Steve remembered hearing was the smashing of Darlington crystal as it hit the polished parquet wooden floor, fragments skidding across the slippery surface and finally grinding to a stop to skulk under the bed, shortly before his body ensued the vase to the ground.
"Oh my God." Jenny thought as she peered over the opposite edge of the bed to see Steve's blood flooding over the wooden floor. He wasn't moving. This wasn't meant to happen. Was it? That concerned, caring side of her vanished to be take over by a contrastingly apathetic half, which calmed her down, relaxed her breathing and told her mind to forget it, things would sort themselves out. She casually walked around the bed, avoiding contact with the pyjamas he had thrown over the foot of the bed, she didn't want to touch anything. She kept her distance from his body, her calves pressed hard against the rough mattress which had become uncovered as Steve had crawled across the vast expanse of bed. Her knees were covered by the hem of the rose shaded towelling robe, she was going to have a bath. His dark brown hair was matted with the fresh red thick liquid that drained from the side of his head. Something in his frame quivered, or perhaps it was her imagination. She stared at him, to check for any further movement. If she concentrated on his back long enough, she was sure she could see the rising and falling of his ribs. His face was sideways in line with a wooden panel. The blood puddled around his head like a halo.
Mirrored at the door, their square framed reflection told of the horrors she had committed, but it wasn't she who had committed such atrocities, it couldn't have been, not meek little Jenny, no one could possibly even consider such a thought. She stepped over Steve's feet and through the door, down the darkened corridor in the direction of the bathroom.
Water gushed from the tap, fountaining into the blue-green bath tub, hitting the splurge of violet bubble bath syrup before forming a foaming froth which rose to the surface and bubbled under the spray. She glanced at herself in the mirror on the face of the white enamel cabinet above the sink taps, it was starting to mist slightly around the edges, from the steam emitted from the font. She exercised her neck, turning her head to face the right and then the left. The mirror caught her eye as she spun to the left as she saw something was attached to her face, just between her eye and her hairline, something only about half a centimetre across, but it was black and looked to be crawling towards her ear.
Upon closer examination, she smeared the condensation from the mirror with the side of her fist, and peered through her left eye at the object on her face, she discovered the item to be a tiny spider which refused to climb onto her hand no matter how much she blocked it's way, she could wipe it away, but it might get squashed, so she left it there, just temporarily she told herself. The water level had climbed three quarters of the way up the inside of the bath, so she stopped the taps. Testing the water with her toes first, she slowly stepped into the froth, the water was hot, but she could withstand it. Once her body was submerged, she rested her head back against the rim of the bath, her tired eyes snapped closed, her mind wondered, and the spider spun it's web across the surface of her ear. The tingling made her want to rip the spider away, but she knew she mustn't.
As her mind wondered further and further into delirium, she saw her mother waving to her from the window of a train, wearing a short sleeved pink floral dress, her hair tied back in a pony tail, surrounded with a white satin ribbon, which forked like a snake's tongue at the end. The snake hissed at her evilly it's eyes opening like red hot glass straight from the kiln, with no pupils, so she couldn't see what direction they were pointing in, whether they were looking at her or just staring out into the oblivion behind her. The train pulled away, and she couldn't bare to stay on the platform any longer, the tarmac beneath her feet was getting hot, and she feared her feet would melt to the ground.
He'd only called her a fat bitch. He'd called her worse things before. Why did she chose to strike out at that particular moment? What was she going to do now? She was in a dark pink room, everything was pink, it was a teenage girl's worst nightmare
It had all started the previous night when he returned from the pub around midnight and she'd had a terrible night. First her friend, or so called friend had called her an hour before they were meant to be going out to say her cat wasn't well and could they postpone to the following week. There had been nothing on the television, she'd burnt her bung it in the oven meal and ended up having to eat a measly salad. Her mother had called to tell her that they were coming for lunch on Sunday, so she had to think about what she was going to cook and about how on earth she was going to get the house looking up to her mother's standards by Sunday. The milkman had been the only person to see her that night and take four pounds off her and smile his 'it's cold out here' smile at her, as he stood on the front step, as she went off to fetch her purse from the kitchen. She'd cursed Steve as she ironed his shirts for work. Why the hell couldn't he do his own shirts? Why had she turned into his washerwoman? Did he know what an iron looked like? How come he managed to get together with his mates whenever he wanted to. He'd be out on Saturday night as well. Was she ever going to see him? Did she want to? What was she doing with him anyway?
