He stroked her beautiful brown tresses with his fidgety fingers. A tremor went through his body but she did not move. The whining fan squeaked to a halt and the only voice in the room died with it. He always knew, silence had more to itself than what met the blinking eye. His throat felt parched, but he was too afraid to leave her side. Something inside him told him she would leave him forever if he so much as moved an inch. He did not want to lose what was left of her. The floor felt frigid and frosty, so did her limp body. He kissed her on her left cheek, kept his empty bottle of misery aside and cradled her to his chest like a new born, petrified that his touch would scar her flawless skin.
Her hair were wet, his hand could feel it, but it didn't feel like water, it felt dark, thick and ugly. He never adored the color red and always thought it signified death, but suddenly, it seemed to have filled his vision. It was blood. Her blood. His stained hand started to tremble. He hurriedly wiped it off her black dress. This is her favorite dress, she will be furious with me when she wakes up. The dizziness was making it hard to keep it together, his head felt unusually heavy, the room was spinning at an alarming rate. The alcohol and coke in his system were waiting to swallow him up like hungry demons. A quick flashback ran inside his head. It came back in bits.
Did...drink today...also...don't you understand...marriage.....no job... future....is the..... limit..cannot...creep...stay anymore...my father was...right......
In broken little steps, he reached his phone, dropped the pistol and dialled 911. "I..I...umm I think, I.....just.....shot my...my..wife"
Yes, I'm trying to send out a message and I expect you to pass it on further. A certain news in today's newspaper itched my scratch to write about people sealing their fates giving in to alcohol and drugs. As they say 'When the wine is in, the wit is out', and the decisions thereafter become synonymous to lifetime regrets.
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