Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: Rage (violent, uncontrolled hatred and anger) (02/05/15)
- TITLE: Tonight to end
By Trace Pezzali
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Despite the regularity of these late anxious nights, she stayed. His repentance and smooth excuses mollified her but left remnant resentment, so they fought often. Charlotte was convinced that real love was traumatic by nature, to be endured. Their love was hallmarked by passionate, jealous lust that fuelled the creativity in them both. Grand Puppeteer over her emotions, Glenn played with her weaknesses and fears. She also knew they were both imprisoned by addictions.
Tonight; however, it would end. Churning with anger, she’d realised her love for Glenn had turned into hateful poison that ate at her from the inside out. It was ugly, who she’d become.
She peeled back the curtain just as car lights pierced her eyes. Glenn was home. Relief was swept aside by outrage. Charlotte tremored with the tense fury of her nerves. Disdain burned frost-cold in her eyes. Her spine and face was stiff with pride.
Outside: the motor rattle of a cooling engine, door slam, footsteps, key scraping the lock. The door acquiesced.
Glenn’s eyes were wild and desperate. He half-fell against her and clung to her body, burying sobs into her chest.
“I’ve had a horrible night,” he muffled against her, “At the police station all I could think about was you. I was too ashamed to call. You must hate me.” He pulled away from her to better dramatize the story. “I failed a breath test, and had to leave the car on the median strip, and then wait at the station until my reading was down. Brad picked me up so I could get my car.”
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “You must have been over 0.08 to be taken to the station.”
“I was just under when they took a blood test… so they couldn’t arrest me,” Glenn replied.
“Brad could have picked you up straight away. You didn’t have to wait at all,” she challenged.
Glenn thought quickly: “He did, but I stayed at his house until I could drive my car... and then I fell asleep,” he finished lamely.
“You’re a compulsive liar,” Charlotte spat, “I’m worried sick about you, and you can’t care less!”
Instantly, Glenn’s face hardened. “Maybe I didn’t want to come home - I have to put up with this!”
“Put up with –“ Blood pounded in her ears and she went for him like a cat, scratching and tearing. Glenn threw Charlotte off him, then stood over her threateningly; his biceps and forearms rigid with muscle.
“You’re lucky I don’t hit women,” he snarled, contemptuous as he turned, cutting long strides to the kitchen. She heard the running gurgle of tap water filling a glass, while her heart trip trapped in her chest. Charlotte gasped for some semblance of calm but the rage was like a monkey screaming in a cage.
She drew herself up from the floor. Observing him in the kitchen: the curve of his broad shoulders, the beauty of his profile and form that she’d honoured with so many poems over the years. Now she couldn’t stand the sight of him.
From a distance, she watched her hand slide out a knife from the wood block near the oven. Shick it whispered. At the sound, Glenn turned, eyes arrested by the weapon in his girlfriend’s hand.
“Put the knife down,” he coldly commanded.
Her thoughts giggled hysterically at the cliché of his words, her mouth twisted in a mirror of amusement.
Panicked, Glenn switched tactics: “Babe, put the knife down. I’m sorry, really, I am.”
At his wheedling, puppy-soft transformation, all laughter fled.
Do it! The monkey screeched, “do it do it do it do it!”
She threw the knife. It was firm and successful in its target. Thunk.
Glenn brought a hand up to his chest, fingers fumbling around the knife, coming away slick with crimson. In horror, Charlotte watched. His eyes rolled backwards. He fell hard, smashing his head against the counter before sliding down the cupboard to collapse in a heaped pile on the tiles.
She soon discovered he was dead.
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