It Must Have Been Love

He moves his fingers gently across her trembling lips as if her lips were rose petals. “Still as soft as they always were,” he mumbles. Touching her soft lips makes his mind wander to happier days when she filled his empty heart with so much love that he became oblivious to everything else around him. He would hurry home from work just to see her despite protests from his colleagues who always went for a drink after a hard day’s work. Henpecked they thought he was, but smitten with her was closer to the truth. Each text from her was like a breath of fresh air. He would pause whatever he was doing, smile and then reply to the text. It infuriated his colleagues but she was his world, and he was hers, or so he thought.

His mind comes back to this awful day, and he notices the mascara streaming down her lovely cheeks as it accompanies the rainstorm of tears flowing from her now puffy eyes. “It did not have to come to this,” he says, “we could have been the happiest couple in the world.” She wants to speak, but she feels her heart deep in her throat. It is choking her, tightening its grip with every passing second. Her tears cloud her sight, but she still looks for any miniscule sign of hope in his eyes. She can feel his cold fingers move across her lips, but she does not care about that. The coldness of his heart is what scares her to death. If only she could speak. If only she had not cheated.

The pain of being so close to her eats at him. He can feel his blood rushing to his hands. He just wants to take hold of her neck and choke her until she breathes her last. He moves away from her and wipes the tears from his eyes with his hands. Then he heads towards the door. He stops, sniffles and then glances at the canopy bed. He had it made from deep red mahogany with the most artistic carvings you can imagine. He bought satin sheets the day they came back from their honeymoon because he thought they would match the texture of her smooth skin. He was right. They did. She bought a red Persian rug and placed it just next to the bed. “You know my feet get cold easily,” she would always say, “this rug is just the best. I can now get to my small desk straight from the bed without getting cold.”

“Don’t do it. Don’t,” she now screams, “I’m sorry. It meant nothing. I swear it.” Her screams tear into him, and the pain is almost unbearable but he does not have a choice. She wrote the ugly part of the script, and now he has to complete it. His legs feel heavy, and his heart feels crushed. Maybe he should just run to her, choose to forget everything and start again. He still loves her and maybe, just maybe, she still loves him. She cries out, “No, no… please don’t” Her soft, seductive voice now lost. Only a hoarse and pitiful cry remains. “I will… I will do anything, please don’t” she stutters.

He picks up the shovel and opens the door to the living room. She can see the unconscious body of her lover lying on the living room floor. Blood was still oozing from his head leaving a trail across the floor and almost soaking her Persian rug. She could not bear it. Her lover hit so hard in the head that death for him seems imminent yet her husband wants to make sure of it. “Aargh…,” she yells in grief. It comes out as a terrible screech. He stands over his body and then looks back at her. His eyes bloodshot red from crying the moment he caught them together. His plan had worked though he wishes it had not. The roping skills he learned from years of camping also paid off. She could not move, even though, the chair was feeble. First, he would bury the one who took his place, her lover. Then he would bury his love for her along with her.


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