In a Suburban Jungle

The room was dark except for the light from the street lamp peeking through the sheer window curtains. The angle of the light was enough to throw the corners of the room into deep shadow but the center of the room, over the couch and coffee table and oriental rug, the light through the sheer curtains shone in a twisting and turning mix of shadow and light, making the room seem that it was under water. Making it seem that the room itself was a pool of crystal clear water in the middle of a forest, the house plants tropical flora and fauna gathered around competing for the best soil and the most sun.

From the kitchen she entered the room and stopped in this watery light. With a feline quality she cocked her head to listen to the sounds coming from beyond the front door. With a slight up-turning of her mouth she tightened her grasp on the kitchen knife and brought it up to her face. Turning the blade she grabbed a fistful of her hair and began to slice through the long platinum strands. Curl after curl her hair hit the ground, until there were no more long strands for her to grab. Her once thick rapunzel like hair was now a ragged pixy cut. But her eyes still shown with fire.

She began to laugh out loud, spinning round and round in the center of the room. Her spinning became less like child play and more like a tribal dance. Her laughter became less like a sound of joy and more the growl of a wild animal charging through the forest. In her hysteria she began to lash out. The blade of the night slicing through the sofa, scratching the paint on the walls, tearing large gashes in the window sheers. She stopped suddenly, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway just barely penetrating into her world. She darted into the corner of the room to hide herself in the shadow. She heard the slam of a car door and her breathing quickened, her heart slamming it's ancient rhythm in her veins. She tensed her muscles as she heard the key twist in the lock, the handle turn ever so unselfconsciously.

As he opened the door, his nose was assaulted by the smell of feces. Somehow, the dogs must not have made it out for their evening walk. Below that, he smelled something else. He couldn't explain the scent. It was remiscent of something old, something ancient, something earthy. He looked around the living room, at the state of the walls and furniture and his hand tightened on the handle of his briefcase. "What the he-" was all he was able to say before he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He was only vaguely aware that the half naked form weilding a large blade and charging towards him was his wife.

Her body collided with his, sending him crashing into the wall behind him. Down came her arm and the knife buried itself in his shoulder. He cried out and struggled to get away, feeling inch by painful inch as she pulled the knife out of his body. He darted towards the kitchen, but not before she lashed out again with her weapon. The tip caught him on the back of his upper thigh, opening a gash half an inch deep and five inches long. He felt warmth flow down his leg as his frantically beating heart forced his life through his veins and outside of his body. He fell to the ground and began to pull himself along with his good arm.

She stood over him as he tried to escape, mesmerized by the sound of his heavy breathing. The smell of his blood filled her nostrils. A bitter smell, yes, but also rich and full and beautiful. With a cry from deep in her soul she threw her body on his and plunged the knife deep between his shoulder blades. Again and again she brought the knife down thinking, "This one is for the child you didn't want, that you made me get rid of." "This one is for the career I gave up because you said no wife of yours was going to work." "This one is for the piece of shit Honda I drive because you said no woman in your house would drive a nicer car than you." "This is for not letting me have money of my own." "And this is for the strange perfume I smell on you three, four, five times a week." She brought the knife down again and again until the struggling beneath her had stopped. She looked down at herself, at the large red dots on her arms and abdomen. Blood, but not her own. Tears would be shed, but not her own. Lives would be shattered, but not her own. She was free now.

Slowly she brought the blade of her kitchen knife across the back of her forearm. A small red line appeared as if by magic. A aymbolic mark. The sign of her first kill. With a primitive cry she jumped off the body and ran out to the front yard to rejoice with the moon.