Short Story: An Art Of Killing

Short Story: An Art Of Killing

It had always been what Braxton wanted right from the start when you first met him and he came over and began chatting you up and buying you drinks and taking you out to dinner and to the theatre and taking you back to his place with that housekeeper he had back then who looked at you all kind of snooty like when he brought you back as if you were some kind of whore he'd picked up and even after you married him she never liked you and eventually he let her go after a flaming row with you over something or other you cannot recall anymore except that it was his decision to let her go not yours as it was his decision whether you had children which you didn't because he didn't want them saying they were a drain on resources both financially and spiritually and that there were enough darn children in the world anyway and so you were not to be a mother at least by him despite his constant demands for sex and all the kinky things that went with it and the trips abroad to France and Spain where he had business interests and connections and you on his arm like some appendage all pretty and sexy and seemingly not too bright as he wanted it so and all you had to do was be there and smile and show a leg and be attentive and be quiet unless he wanted you to talk at least during his business meetings and sit there like some made up doll for him and his friends and partners to gaze at and smile at and who knows what else went through their minds as they gazed at you who cared he didn't seem to nor did they only you knowing men as you did guessed what was on their minds as they sat and gazed all smiles and teeth and wisecracks but then Braxton brought some young girl back one night some young bitch with a fine figure and a smile sickly and false and he told you to sleep in the spare room as he and she had things to discuss and work through regarding some business deal involving modelling and a film project he was working on and he didn't want to be disturbed and you went off to the spare room and sat on the bed and smoked and drank and listened like some kid sent to bed early waiting to see if the parent would come up to read a story or maybe if you'd been bad a good spanking and after waiting for an hour or so with all your anger rising up and an ashtray of cigarette butts and a drained glass and an empty bottle of wine you made your way along the passage on tiptoe and stood outside the door of the room listening with your ear to the wooden panel and heard the giggling bitch and Braxton laughing in that voice of his and you opened the door and there they were naked and all over each other and you went over to the bed and beat the bitch with the wine bottle and caught Braxton on the head as he rose up and kept hitting them both until the room went suddenly silent and the crimson colour flowed over you and her and him like some artist had gone mad and splashed red paint over the dull canvas in an effort to create a new work of art to disturb the universe and dislodge dust from the dark depths of the soul.