Hitch

A short clip from the story Hitch by Georgia Bennett.

Hitch.

"Ashamed, she thinks to herself, I'm ashamed of you - you're becoming sloppy. She shook her head at herself, and slammed the knife into the sink, grasping her forehead in frustration. She was expecting tears to prickle in her eyes but this wasn't ever possible. A cold heart can only cry when it's melted. And it's been frozen for a very long period of time. But it was beginning to crack. No tears, though. Only dread and guilt. Maybe a hint of sadness, but it was too blurred to tell.

She breathed out a steady breath, and continued to scrub her knife bone dry. Her throat became a desert as she held her lungs tight. Her fingertips were becoming numb from the constant, persistent movement of the towel, and she accidentally caught one of her fingers on the tip of the blade. She dropped the knife in shock and it landed with a clang, and placed her bleeding skin into her mouth to try and clean the mess. It left a foul, salty taste on her tongue. She reached for the cupboard, and took out a small plaster she would normally use on her children's knees when they grazed them on the local garden. She had sent the children away to her sisters' so she could get on with the deed she had been meaning to do for some time now.

"Have you goddamn finished cleaning those dishes in there?!" A croaking yet booming voice twisted into the kitchen and made her ears prick. Her eyes tightened, and her tongue ran across her teeth in irritation. She growled under her breath, and picked up the knife from the floor. The wooden handle felt cool to her grip, and solid as cement.

"Yes, dear," she could see her reflection of her eyes in the blade, they grew dark, black as coal, and didn't twinkle like emeralds like they would in public. She looked into the living room by the corner of her eye, and a small snarl occurred and devious, smug and small smirk appeared on her lips.

Her heels pressed against the tiled floor and then landed on the carpet when she walked into the living room, as silent as a mouse. She contained her desire of blood. The demon's arm chair was in her sights, stained, putrid and disarrayed just like the pigpen sitting in it like he was king of the world, and his feet were resting on the weak and ill. She edged closer, her grip became tighter on the knife handle, and her head cocked to the right, examining the loathsome ape's behaviour and reaction - no problem there, then. Lazy, ridiculous, a joke. How dare he abuse what he has, including the people he supposedly 'cares for'? Her anger got the best of her. Her fingers instantly tugged into his hair, like she was manually beheading him. His greasy locks were slimy and greasy to the touch, and she managed to bring her face next to his screams. She glared at him as he screamed. He looked at her in pure fear, and she smiled, amused at his pain. She scraped her fingernails into his roots, making him groan in agony, and she could feel oozes of blood hit her skin. She then placed the blade on the other side of his throat, and brought the knife piercing through his neck easier than paper..."

"Aaah, that's nasty! Damn!" I rolled my eyes at the fool who was at the front seats. I can't even read one of my scripts without at least one jackass spoiling the tension.