Nobody's Perfect

Thirteen years!

Thirteen years of beratement. She spent too much time at work; too little time at the gym. She didn’t make enough money; the house wasn’t clean enough.

Thirteen years of his claims of love that offered moments of happiness peppered among cruelty and torment.

Tears of self-loathing ran down Sarah’s cheeks. She deserved it.

His words, weapons bashing in her hopes and dreams, echoed in her head. Everything he said was true.

Always had been.

She pounded the wet rag against the floor, splashing fluid against the kitchen tile with hatred for herself. Each blow released another splash, compounding her anger.

As she stared at the mess she’d made worse instead of better, she froze. This was the only thing she was good at. Usually.

Cleaning, despite his claims to the otherwise, was her forte. Yet, here she’d made it bloodier.

Her husband’s accusing gaze lay next to her, the knife she’d used to stab him multiple times still embedded in his neck. Disgust rose in the back of her throat. She wiped at her mouth. The blood from her split lip mixed with his splattered on the back of her hand.

Her gaze dropped to the bright, crimson streak mixing with the darker spots. Hysterical giggles built up.

“Oh my gawd. Look at this mess. Look at what I’ve done.” Peels of laughter rang out of her as she gestured at the pool of red on the floor. Her gaze met her dead husband’s and she said. “After all, you’re the one who told me, so many times, ‘nobody’s perfect’.”

Another sharp guffaw burst out of her and it devolved into broken sobs. She repeated, “Nobody’s perfect.”

Thirteen years and his expectation of perfection had cost them everything, and Sarah still had to clean it up.