by Tifanny White
It was the control. A formality which she would never guess would kill her someday. Control swung in every direction. You can’t wear this, you can’t eat that, lose that weight, don’t talk to him, we make love every Thursday and Saturday three times a day, never on Monday. Her husband had become fat with power and she succumbed like a wilted flower to pouring rain. There wasn’t any support. She went to the YWCA. He found her. He fought for her. She returned home. A lie of a home where both their faces graced the walls with wide smiles and yellow teeth. She wanted her freedom, he wanted to see if her heart still beat for him. So he found out with a knife sharp as her stupidity, gutted her, left her heart on the table next to her car keys. He knew it was improper. He did not care. That night he danced with his denial, full of tequila, hypnotized by the red and blue lights flickering outside his bedroom window.