Great. Good. Whatever.
I'm liking it.
The beginnings of a story I'm currently working on:
Something Like Happiness
Better to kill him. If she killed herself, he wouldn’t care. Not that he cared that she was alive. And yet he wouldn’t let her leave.
“You don’t want me and you don’t want anyone else to have me,” she’d once shrieked during yet another quarrel.
He had laughed. “Don’t nobody else want you,” he’d assured her as he pulled on his jacket.
His words cut across her throat. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak; not that she’d had a response because that was her greatest fear: that she was fortunate to have him because there really was no one else, that there would never be anyone else.
Macy lay in the bed, their bed, flat on her back, the knife resting against her heart. She sighed. She was tired, and it was taking so much to stay awake.
She fought the urge to glance over at the clock on the nightstand. She had the feeling she’d be disappointed that time too had no regard. It would do as it pleased: move quickly or seemingly not at all—with no thought whatsoever of Macy Fielder.