Behind Closed Doors

She shook her head as much to disagree with a thought as to throw it away, physically, from her head. With her fists clenched and her eyes firmly shut, she repeated the words.
No. No. No. Simple, repeated, and growing firmer with every utterance.
No. No. No.
It had followed her. Had sought her, blanketed her, like the inky blackness of night smothered the day.
No. No. No.
It couldn't have happened. She imagined it. There was nothing to mar the perfect house. The smiling family. The dark haired, tall and strapping husband. The blonde, shining beauty of the wife. The cherubic innocence of the son. This young, happy family was the very picture of functional. Hers was a happy home. She had left the bad behind her, the blackness that threatened to envelope the soul of all who dwelled near it. She was the phoenix. She had risen from the dark and angry ashes. Here, in her home, in her bedroom bathed in sunlight, she was safe.

She opened her eyes, unclenched her hands and stood slowly, inhaling a deep cleansing breath. She smoothed her skirt, ruffled and wrinkled after...

She stared into her face in the mirror. Unblemished. She was a beauty. What a lucky husband. What a beautiful child. What a lovely, perfectly normal family.
Her eyes were red rimmed, but otherwise, the smooth and tranquil surface was undisturbed. She retrieved her hair brush from the floor and swept it across her crown, sweeping the hair off her face, letting it fall softly. You'd never even guess...

She walked out of the bedroom, along the landing, keeping her head high, aiming her eyes at some invisible spot on the wall above the stairwell. She walked slowly down the stairs, trailing her fingers along the banister. She felt strength flood her. She felt her heart lighten.

She went about her day. She cleaned, she straightened, she collected dry cleaning, she shopped. A beatific smile here and there for the shop keepers. A soft laugh at a repeated joke. She cut flowers for the table, laid it with cutlery and china, and sat down to wait for The Husband to return. He walked in the door, kissed her lightly on the cheek. How was her day? Had she heard from the plumber, would the tap be fixed? Yes dears all round, nods, smiles, laughter, conversation.

He climbs the stairs, she trails behind him, chatting about this and that. That new flower shop opened up, the neighbour’s dog got into the trash again, did you know Phyllis Haggerty is running for town council? The husband un-knots his tie. She feels anxiety fill her. She doesn't know why.

She continues to talk, not watching him, leaning against the door as he walks into the bathroom. She is startled when he cries out. She wonders what has happened. She walks in. He is on his knees, surrounded by something damp. Water. But darker. Thicker. The smell of copper floods her nostrils. She is confused. He looks at her. Disbelief floods his tall, dark and handsome features.

What have you done?
Done, well nothing darling, what's all the fuss?

Shock courses through him. He feels his head spin, tears stream, his heart almost audibly breaks. In his arms, the battered and broken body of his son. Cold. Wet. Still half in, half out of the bathtub. She is confused.

You killed him. My god you killed our baby.
Our baby?
Look at him, you crazy psychotic bitch. Look at our baby!

She feels a whisper, a tickle in the back of her head. The tickle becomes a bashing, the whisper becomes a roar. She sees herself. Fists flying, the memory of her own rage frightens her. The violence has followed her. Her home is no haven. She is no phoenix.

She felt her body shudder. Inside her head, metallic clanging. The doors came down.

Shall we have red or white with dinner?