What Beautiful Scenery

Her eyes flutter open after a good dream about a life with no worries. No cares. She reaches over and taps the cold statue on the leg, "Good morning baby. Looks like we are starting over and we are free of worries this time." No more violence, because she made a final decision on wanting to have silence in it's place.
She sits up grinning at the man that is now respectful and a good listener. He used to be power hungry and hurtful but she changed that when she couldn't stand it anymore. Her eyes turn to look at his lifeless body and she strokes his chest. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5... counting the new holes he has in place of a heart.

13 stabs ruptured the crippled thing inside him of which the same thing inside herself is bruised and barely beating with a new sense of hope.

She stands wrapping a robe around her ruby body with blood stained hands. She swings herself off the bed and walks through the gore on the ground, leaving footprints to the bathroom. She smears herself with the crime and takes a blood bath to clean herself of the slaughter she commit in the next room.

Flashbacks of the night before come back to her. Everything flies behind her eye lids as she runs downstairs and he gets out of bed. He goes to the door to punish her as she grabs a knife and takes him from his family to help her search and destroy the man who has taken her husbands place. She tucks it into the back of her shorts as she staggers back up the stairs, tripping over herself from the adrenaline rush. She counts the steps it takes to be in the strangers arms.

1,2,3,4,5... 13 steps to reach him.

1,2,3,4,5... 13 stabs to kill him.

One in the door way. Another as he falls backwards. Two as he crawls and holds the bed for support. Another as he falls onto the gentle pillows behind him. Five as he takes in his final breath, staining the bedsheets. Three more for good measure, and the butchery is finished. Who knew one body held so much blood?

Now clean she stands dripping with pure water that washed away her sins. Next her confession. She walks into the slaughter house and finds the knife who was hiding from the world. Ashamed of the havoc he has created.

She steps down each stair with ease, adrenaline still high but now manageable and it only hightens her senses. She walks into the kitchen and rids the blade of the vital fluid that once kept her lover and her enemy alive and breathing. She puts him back with his family in the drawer he rested in the day before he became a murder. Pulling out a jug of bleach she lugs it to the evil exhibition upstairs and pours out the liquid, dowsing everything in a steady stream of purity. Her hands no longer blood stained are pale and cold, but pure none the less. Now the confession is taking place. She purifies the curtains, the walls, the bedsheets, his shirt, her shorts, and every footstep she took through her sticky sin. No longer her sin, but Gods.

She turns and leaves it all behind. She walks out to the car and hops in with her bags she packed 13 days ago. As she drives down a peaceful road past a forest she takes off her wedding ring and throws it out the window and under her tires. She will never turn back. Never be hit again. She will no longer have to bandage up a bleeding heart, because she is now free. Of sin, but most importantly of the monster she once lived with. Freedom is the taste of victory.