More Drabbles - sort of all lumped together until I have time to separate them - sorry!

I only stabbed him because I couldn’t poison him. Literally, it couldn’t be done. I put rat poison in his food for 3 weeks and he didn’t have so much as a stomach ache! Do you get it? Do you see what a fucking nightmare he was? I even had to lock the children in their rooms so they wouldn’t see the mess, he was so fucking messy. I was always cleaning up after him. He cooked well though, the last meal he gave us was a good one. He was so fat that his meat was succulent and tender.

He loved her when she couldn’t love him back but he resented her for it, she couldn’t be comforted or healed and the pressure would have broken him eventually. He blamed himself when he saw the soulless spectre that walked in place of the vivacious beauty he had married; the fiery eyes that could hold anyone’s gaze were now dull and lowered permanently to the floor. With each pill, he remembered her dancing on podiums with carefree abandonment; he looked down at the woman who could barely leave her bed, poured the water into her mouth and kissed her goodbye.

I clamber up to join you whilst clinging fearfully to the rail beside me. Below the police calmly control the crowds of voyeuristic people clamouring to look, half hoping to see you plummet. I stretch to touch your hand but you are just out of reach; I call your name but you don’t acknowledge me. I push myself closer to you, telling you everything will be OK when we both know it isn’t true. “I love you” “You’ll be OK”, empty reassurances intended to calm and soothe you. You turn around, our eyes lock then you are lost to me.

Little by little I watched you close yourself off to the world and I did nothing about it. I waited, hoping it would resolve itself and you would return. I saw it coming, I was complicit in its happening and I cover for you every time. I’m not ignorant of the shoes caked in mud, the clothes that disappear or the car that constantly needs cleaning. On the news a local girl is reported missing and you are suddenly engaged, transfixed, studying her friends and family as they hopelessly appeal for information. A mother always knows. Your mother never tells.

Your Honour, I enjoyed killing him. I don’t feel remorse and I will spend the rest of my days with a song in my heart. Oh yes, I can see his widow and children in the gallery and, yes, I understand that I am due to be punished in the name of Justice. The tabloids will make a monster of me and the public will wish me dead; psychologists will analyse me, doctors will disagree on my diagnosis; I will be despised but I shall be at peace. I haven’t had peace since the day I gave birth to him.

You lie beneath the snow flocked ground, just close enough to reach. I dig with bare hands, scrabble until my nails rip from my fingertips; blood soaks into damp cold earth as I frantically try to find you. Finally a glimpse of dirty pink satin, a shimmer of glitter and a hint of bone peeks out. Relieved, I continue more cautiously revealing you in fragments then finally lift you out. Your party frock is ruined so I dress you in something new, purple this time. I kiss each broken bone before laying you back to rest. Happy Birthday my Angel.

Despair hung like an apron over his heart, shielding him from care and compassion. He trudged through the cover of the night cowering with each lash of the wind and fighting to stay upright when his feet gave way in the mud. Finally he reached the Master’s house and fell to his knees on the stoop; weakly he knocked and crawled inside when the door was opened to him. With trembling fingers he drew the grail from a shabby knapsack and it skittered across the marble floor; the Master snatched it up and inspected it closely before walking hurriedly away.

Dad slept in our greenhouse. It’s not as though he lived there, he came in for his meals, to watch TV and to have a wash but it’s a small house and we have no room for another bed. He couldn’t sleep on the floor, we’d keep tripping over him and it wasn’t fair to make him sleep on a bunk bed with one of the kids on top. He had his privacy out there anyway. We were all incredibly shocked when he died, it was very sudden and we still don’t understand what happened. Doctor said it was pneumonia.

Cowering behind a curtain in a corner she maintained quiet, shallow breaths; any sound would betray her position and she had nowhere left to run. He decimated every room as he rampaged, homing in on her. Tentatively she reached out and felt around, hoping for something to use as a weapon; her fingertips touched something hard and cold, his hand clasped around hers, twisted her arm and dragged her across the carpet. She screamed as the sole of his boot smashed down towards her face and she felt the blood gurgle in her throat silencing her once and for all.