The Perfect Kitchen

He stomps into the kitchen trying to muffle his footsteps, but it’s impossible. Everything about him screams loud. Just walking into a room causes a ruckus, even if it’s an empty room.

As he walks to the fridge he hears her reminding him to open the door gently. He grabs an iced beer and snaps the cap off the bottle. Tipping his head back he downs it struggling to push her voice away. He reaches in to grab another. It’s empty. He slams the fridge door shut in frustration. The whole room quakes with his anger. The empty beer bottle shatters as it hits the wall, scattering glass all over the flawless white linoleum floor

He picks up one of her table chairs to throw at the wall as well. The ones she had searched for for weeks and weeks. The ones she fell in love with the moment she saw them.

“OH! Look John! Look at those chairs. Aren’t they just beautiful? I know they are a tad bit pricey, but they are perfect. They’ll look wonderful in our kitchen! Don’t you think?” he hears her asking.

He clutches the chair tightly; he feels the bars in the back of it bite painfully into his chest. Her sweet voice fills his head. Her big, smoky gray eyes look at him with excitement. His mind begins to mist over.

Suddenly he hurls the chair onto the floor, again and again, until her eyes begin to fade. Exhausted he backs against the wall and stares at the remains of the ruined kitchen chair.

“John, sweetie, you forget your own strength sometimes,” her voice whispers softly as she turns his face towards her to search his eyes.

He turns to face the wall and beats his fists against it, trying to hurt himself. Yellow fills his vision as he stares intently at the wall; her voice continues to echo in his head. What would have once instantly calmed him, now tore him up inside.

“Butter? That’s such a strange name for a paint color! I wonder what it would look like on our walls. I bet it would brighten up our kitchen.”

He yells aloud in the empty kitchen and begins to kick the wall in desperation. He kicks and kicks until a hole appears. He stops and surveys the damage. The hole is like a massive stain in the perfect kitchen. He feels strangely exhilarated.

Turning around he spots the pots and pans hanging contentedly above the counter. He walks to them filled with an unexplainable rage towards them.

“I found a whole set of pots and pans today at the second-hand store. Can you believe it? They were in perfect condition!” she laughs as her hand lightly caresses his cheek.

He reaches for them, struggling to free them from the hooks where she had hung them. They were stuck. Frantically he rips at them, tugging and cursing until the whole rack is torn brutally from the ceiling, flinging pots and pans in every direction. Another hole appeared where the rack had once been.

As he kicks the pots and pans around the kitchen, he is hit by an overpowering smell. He scans the kitchen and remembers the countless vases on the table filled with her last bouquets of flowers, the ones that were given in her memory, the ones she’ll never enjoy.

He runs at them in a frenzy of despair. He rips the bright flowers from the water filled containers and drops them to the ground, helplessly smashing them into the linoleum. He picks up one of the dozens of vases and throws it towards the floor. The shards and water hit his bare feet. Blood, from his feet, mixes with the water, but he doesn’t even notice.

“I love you. You know that John? I loved you the first time I laid eyes on you. You may think it's dumb, but it’s true. And now we’ll never have to be apart ever again.”

He picks up another vase and hurls it across the room. It hits the butter colored walls and explodes. More water, more shards.

“You are my life now. We’ll have babies together and grow old together. Together, John, together,” she kisses tenderly into his neck.

Each vase is thrown until the kitchen is filled with water and glass. Each one shattered until nothing remains. Nothing but him and his torture, but him and her kitchen.

He stands by the table panting with vulnerability. Slowly he lowers himself onto the floor. His rage is gone. He has destroyed it.

“Baby, we’ll get through this. Don’t worry sweetie. This won’t defeat me. I’m going to be fine. You’ll see. I am stronger than this,” her voice eagerly reassures him, caressing his tender heart, filling him with heartache.

He buries his face into his hands, weeping for her, for him, for them.