Matt & Faythe

Matt stalked the length of the hallway, through wafts of Indian food and the muffled noise of unruly children being scolded by some hoarse, exhausted mother. The keys bit into his sweaty palm as his lecherous and pregnant wife's new apartment door came into view. Their latest heated argument over absolutely nothing bubbled over his forced calm.

He could be here. He realized, They could be in there fucking on the couch, right now.

The harsh imagery slapped him in the face. Wrestling the urge to put another hole in the drywall, Matt stepped back and readied another go at it. 

One that wouldn't end in handcuffs and probation.

Swallowing that stagnant lump of rage and hurt, it piled in droves inside his stomach. He reminded himself it wasn't her fault, it was the baby's. It's not her. You can't take anti-psychotic medication while pregnant. She's not herself.

He stood outside the door for a moment and listened. No footsteps, no radio, no talking to shadows. Dread paled his face and shook his nerve. Faythe hated silence.

Stumbling with the key, Matt turned the latch, expecting the worst.

The air was stale and earthy, tinged with rotten meat. Matt covered his nose and stammered into the kitchen. A darkened refrigerator hung open, its contents strewn about its broken shelves. He turned for the bedroom and tripped over Stormy, their 5 month old puppy. He lay stiff and lifeless, his abdomen ripped open, mouth agape in a perpetuated agony.

Muttering curses and imagining his young beautiful wife in a nuthouse being restrained, writhing against orderlies. He numbly sombered into her bedroom.

"Oh, God." Matt breathed.

A small brown towel sat neatly folded on the edge of an aged pool of blood in the middle of Faythes bed. blood splattered the rosy wallpaper above the nightstand. The floor was stamped with bloody hand, limb, and foot-prints, like some macabre diagram.

Matt wretched, leaning against the dresser. He noticed a photo lying under his hand. It was Jace. He was holding Faythe down on the bed and she glared hungrily into the camera as he kissed her neck. I knew it. Goddamn it, i knew it.

After a moment, Matt dropped the photo and drew to the bed. The towel unfolded as it lifted and a small tangle of orange flesh rolled onto the stiff soiled linen.

He could make out tiny webbed fingers and a small delicate head staring with blank, glossy eyes. Screaming, Matt threw the towel against the wall before collapsing against their wooden dresser. He kicked her bed and cried, holding his knees.

A cold, rigid hand grasped his, tenderly. Her familiar hoarse voice broke his violent grieving.

"I'm still here, cookie."

Matt looked up at his wife. Dirty, malnourished, and naked. The bulge from their growing child replaced by loose skin. Her pupils so wide they consumed the soft, gentle blue he loved so dearly. Dry blood flaked from her chin, chest heaving with each draw of breath. If Faythe was hindered by any of this, she didn't show it. He began to reach for her cheek, as he'd done so many times before. She flinched and he jerked his hand away. That made her smile.

"Faythe, What happened?" he managed through stolen breaths. She said nothing but held his face with both hands, and brushed away streaks of neglected tears. He gingerly held her wrists, out of lost affection and a sliver of fear. She was lifeless and cold. A bead of red rolled from her eye, and wound its way past her mouth. Her face softened.

"He abandoned me." She gazed past him and slowly stood, leading him up with her hands.

"Who? You're freezing. What the hell happened here?"

Faythe only studied him, blankly.

"Let me help you!" Matt tried to turn away, to find her some clothes. Faythe's grip tightened and he struggled to overpower her wrists. Another smile pervaded her sad expression.

She pulled him down to her eye level. Panicking, he scratched and punched at her forearms. Faythe half closed her eyes in pleasure, savoring the pain. Her breath was thick with old blood and soured meat. Matt stilled, and watched twin blades slide from the top of her gums. Pearl white daggers against a black and yellowed grimace.

Matt gurgled his cries for help and tasted like beer, adrenalin, and old spice. He disgusted her. The venom from Faythes bite quickly circulated, riding his hearts violent pumping. She forced her swallowing until the crazed tick tock pull of his supply slowed to a normal pace.

She wouldn't destroy him in the process the way Jace did her.

"I'm not a monster." Faythe whispered in Matt's ear as she fell asleep on his chest. Morose, she would rest patiently until he returned to her.

As hers.