The centre was busy; everybody occupied, some answering calls while other scurrying away with important files, it seemed surreal. I crawled to my office, unnoticed, and stared numbly at the red ring around the date on the calendar, and wondered secretly how I was still alive... mentally. The date barely registered in my brain – one week since the sinful date, one week of suffering. I stumbled excessively to the washroom, desperately trying to wash my guilty conscience away. A futile attempt. “Macbeth!” My wife bellowed from the hall, every head turned, to get a glimpse of the commotion. The soup slipped through my hands by the unexpected sound, it hit the floor like an echo of lifelessness; just like Alex’s body. “Y-yes, Lady-y Macbeth?” I slurred, feeling a tear roll down my cheek. Her eyebrows furrowed in suspicion. “Honey, what’s the matter?” In that moment, I envied her. She forgot everything about what we had done, like it never happen, so blissfully unaware. “N-nothing.” I took a bottomless breath a forced a raspy smile onto my tired face. She raised an eyebrow. She obviously didn’t buy it, however she shrugged it off, choosing to ignore my erratic behaviour.
The following night was never-ending, I stared blankly at the golden god-father clock; every second appear to be a day, rain clatter on the window, thunder dominated the dark sky. The silence was deafening, the atmosphere lost in angelic sensation. Like the devil himself was present in the room. Suddenly, my wife awoke except she was still in a deep sleep murmuring to herself; like she was making a sinful confession. I finally protested “I can’t believe you convinced me into this!” She lit a match and I observed, fascinated, how the small tongue of flame burned into the matchstick, devouring it, leaving what was once the thin, simple wood, into a charred black nightmare. She dropped the old matchbox to the floor and lit the candles, which flickered in the dark, eerie room. I watched as her eyes scanned the room suspiciously, I could tell she was frightened. Her eyelids quivered as her hands trembled with terror. Silvery light from the moon pepped through the old, stained glass windows which reflected from the expensive china vases; turning the light into a horrific, dark blood red. The light fell upon the polished wooden board perfectly and it illuminated the writing. “IT IS TIME FOR REVENGE”. The writing seemed scratched on, I stole a glance at her finger nails and realised the unleashed horror…