The Missing Wife
She stands

    as still as can be,

    upright,

perfect posture,

awaiting his arrival.

'He is late again,'

    she says inside herself,

    she stares

    intently

    at the old back door

    the same one she's been

    tossed

    and thrown against

    time and again.

She doesn't want to see his face,

    but she knows she will,

    despite her desperate prayers

    and hopes

    beyond all hope itself.

She moves her gaze,

    something catches her eye,

    the doorknob,

    a glint of light

    sparks in her vision,

    as it turns,

    the dent,

    from the night

    it all began.

She breathes heavy,

    inding each gasp

    to come

    a little less easily

    than the one before,

    to her,

    its like breathing

    in

    wet

    concrete.

He throws the door open,

    the cracked white paint

seems to scream,

to moan

from its discomfort

of being slung

just as she is

every day.

She wipes her hands

    on her apron

    and looks at him,

    but not at his eyes,

    for she fears

    that if she does,

    she will be hypnotized

    again,

    hypnotized into thinking

    she is worthless

    unwanted

    and reminded

    that she

    is unloved.

He says nothing,

    but his actions

    and his eyes

    say everything,

    he is going to do it again,

    he is going to hurt her,

    break her,

    steal her soul

    and crush it

    once again.

He pushes her back,

    she falls to the floor,

    "Just where you should be,"

    he says,

    "on the ground,

    "with the rest of the dirt."

She sheds no tears,

    she only stands again,

    silently,

    awaiting his next word

    or his hand

    to throw her down.

He steps closer,

    she backs away,

    trying to escape,

    but she can't,

    he only gets closer,

    closer,

    closer,

    until he can smell her fear,

    taste her anguish,

    his addiction,

    his new true love.

She touches the counter behind her,

    its smooth finish

    becomes the bearer

    of the message

    that she

    can go

    no further.

She feels something else,

    something cold,

    something sharp,

    she slips it behind

    her wrist

    sheathing it

    with the loose

    unbuttoned sleeves

    of her blouse.

She turns,

    he follows,

    she backs up,

    he steps forward.

He raises a fist,

    she raises a knife,

    his hateful eyes

    change

    to frightened eyes.

She uses everything she has,

    her fear,

    her hate,

    her despair,

    anguish,

animosity,

    adrenaline,

    she thrusts the knife,

    it goes right through him,

    through his heart.

He dies.

His hateful eyes disappear,

    rolling back

    into his skull,

    never to be seen again.

She has killed him,

    but he had done

    so much more

    to kill her,

    he was simply

    weaker

    or at least

    she thinks so…

Her rush disappears,

    panic sets in,

    she doesn't know

    what to do next,

    so

    she packs her things

    and like his eyes,

    she

will

never

    be

    seen

Big
He stands,
     shadowing over her,
     like a predator
     to its prey.
She tries to scream,
     but terror
     takes her voice
     at the worst possible moment.
She sees his face,
     familiar,
     but now
     with a tinge of excitement,
     something
     she’s never seen on him before.
From his look of darkest joy,
     she feels her life
     drain from inside her.
She shivers,
     her spin tingles,
     she doesn’t want to die
     but she knows
     death
     has its icy fingers
     on her heart.
He smiles,
     his mouth
     bent
     into a wicked,
     crooked
     grin.
And then,
     there is blood,
     her gasps for breath
     get closer
     to finding an end
     she feels small
     infintecimal
     nothing.
Finally,
     he has what he wants,
     he is big,
     if only
     until
     his secret
     is out.