Brigits Flame, November, Week Three
Nov. 19th, 2014 08:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
riotheclownHysteria
Someone was screaming and it might have been her.
This thought was strange.
So was the thought that she was having a breakdown. That thought came to her not in words but in the image of shards of awareness hurtling into a void, disconnected from self and from context and the edges of these shards were screams.
The edges were bloody.
The blood was where she was holding her hands over the hole in her husband's neck. The blood was filling the cracks between her fingers, spilling onto the floor.
Here was gravity. Here was context: She had shot her husband in the neck. The gun had been tossed on to the floor. The pool of blood was encroaching on it.
She knew he was dead. She wiped her hands on her shirt and stood up. She walked to the phone and punched in the numbers: 911.
"Hello? Umm, I would like to report a murder...Umm, me, I did it. No. I don't know why, I don't remember but I think...no he's dead. Umm. No I'm not hurt... Yes I'll stay here...on their way...my children, my children, my children, my children...................!"
She started to scream again. She could hear the voice on the phone talking to her, asking her to calm down, asking where the children were.
She felt empty. Cold. She answered mechanically, with a raspy voice, gave the name of their school...she couldn't remember if she had given her address so she gave it again. She thought, I'm so stupid!
"Someone has to clean this up before they come home, I don't want them to see this... Yes I will wait for emergency services. Oh, I won't, I'll just wait. Yes, I think I'm in shock. My throat is really sore. I am going to make a cup of tea. I have to put the phone down for a second..."
Someone was screaming and it might have been her.
This thought was strange.
So was the thought that she was having a breakdown. That thought came to her not in words but in the image of shards of awareness hurtling into a void, disconnected from self and from context and the edges of these shards were screams.
The edges were bloody.
The blood was where she was holding her hands over the hole in her husband's neck. The blood was filling the cracks between her fingers, spilling onto the floor.
Here was gravity. Here was context: She had shot her husband in the neck. The gun had been tossed on to the floor. The pool of blood was encroaching on it.
She knew he was dead. She wiped her hands on her shirt and stood up. She walked to the phone and punched in the numbers: 911.
"Hello? Umm, I would like to report a murder...Umm, me, I did it. No. I don't know why, I don't remember but I think...no he's dead. Umm. No I'm not hurt... Yes I'll stay here...on their way...my children, my children, my children, my children...................!"
She started to scream again. She could hear the voice on the phone talking to her, asking her to calm down, asking where the children were.
She felt empty. Cold. She answered mechanically, with a raspy voice, gave the name of their school...she couldn't remember if she had given her address so she gave it again. She thought, I'm so stupid!
"Someone has to clean this up before they come home, I don't want them to see this... Yes I will wait for emergency services. Oh, I won't, I'll just wait. Yes, I think I'm in shock. My throat is really sore. I am going to make a cup of tea. I have to put the phone down for a second..."
