It was everywhere. On the walls, the couch, the pillow I'd used to beat him in the face at first, the lamp he'd fallen on. It was pooling in the carpet and under my nails. I'd gotten it on my shoes and my pants and my shirt and my face, oh my face. It ran into my mouth, salty, metallic.
And it felt so good.
I didn't know that voice. It didn't sound like me. But I knew the one coming from the front door.
Stammering, stuttering, my wife stood in the doorway. She was shaking, looking around the living room, at her lover she'd kept from me, and at me covered in HIM. Not just his blood..
Pieces of his skin torn from his face, and his arms. Chunks of his shoulders and stomach.
I'd taken the day off from work to pend with my wife, newly wed, just after our honeymoon. My boss was understnading, having gotten married only two weeks ago himself. I couldn't keep doing it, and it was her that pointed it out, not me.
It was the morning, early. Why we were alread