Page 10 of Dollhouse

I figure that out the moment I roll over onto my back, examine my hands that have been clawed up. I scratch at the itchy, dry blood.

I press the heels of my palms into my eyes and scrub away at my distorted vision, blinking several times to clear the fog.

With clear eyes, I see the scene in our bedroom and gasp.

I'm staring at the bloody mess that awaits me.

Images from last night play in my head on repeat like a slideshow.

My hands around her delicate throat. Warm blood on my hands. Scratches down my arms and chest that fucking itch.

I can still feel the throbbing vein in her neck on my fingers, and the exact moment the throbbing stopped, and cloudy blue eyes stared back at me.

My wife is dead.

I knew it the second I woke up this morning.

My wife is dead.

And I killed her.

But there are questions on the tip of my tongue that no one seems interested in.

Where is her body?

Where did the blood come from?

She wasn't bleeding during our fight.

I believe I killed her, I know I killed her, and that's why I didn't fight when I was arrested and read my rights... but they're wrong about one thing.

I didn't make her bleed.

“You will surprise yourself one day by having the strength to so something you never thought you could.”

– Smita Maharana

Another day.

A cheerful morning awaits me, along with the bitter aroma of coffee in the air. Every morning, it's the aroma of Folgers coffee and fresh breakfast that wakes me, a breakfast I don’t have to prepare. It calls to me like a siren, and before I know it, I'm floating down the hallway, drooling over the bacon that I know I’ll find. Cassie, my roommate, is awake before me every morning. While I prefer to sleep in, she likes to be productive way too early in the morning.

As I walk into our small kitchen, I notice the fresh bouquet of flowers in the crystal vase she bought from the thrift store. I hate flowers; they're a waste of money. They're pretty for a moment, then they die. However, Cassie loves them, so there's always a fresh bouquet somewhere in the house. It's familiar and comfortable for me. The small things she does make our shitty apartment seem less shitty and more like home.

"Good morning, sunshine!" She directs her bright smile at me just as she sets a plate of hot breakfast in my hands. She's always trying new diets and experimenting with new recipes to make things healthier. Today, it appears to be French toast, and knowing her, I know it's not made with bread. I've learned to stop questioning her food choices because she's a bomb-ass cook, no matter how weird things can get.

"Thanks," I respond with a smile, setting my plate on the counter while I pour myself a cup of coffee. I take my plate and mug to sit at our small two-seater kitchen table.

"It's egg loaf French toast. Keto," she explains, taking her plate and sitting across from me at our table. Keto, paleo, vegan, low calorie, whatever other diets are out there, she's always on a new one every week. Cassie doesn't have a pound on her to lose. She's in better shape than I am and stays active, but she sure does enjoy dieting. She struggles with an eating disorder, so as bizarre as her diets might be, I'd never say anything to her about it.

I love Cassie. She's my best friend and the only one I've ever felt comfortable enough to be myself around. We're complete opposites. She often jokes that she's the light to my darkness, and I guess it's true. She's a bubbly, happy, go-lucky blonde, and I'm the dark, gloomy one with hair as black as night and clothing to match.

"Stop getting lost in your head and join the land of the living," she teases, throwing a piece of bacon at me that I fetch from my hair and stick in my mouth, flipping her off with a smile. She knows that I’m not much of a talker. I prefer my own company rather than the company of others. I’m not a people person, never have been, and in this life, never will be.

"I was actually thinking that you should never make this again." I gesture to my plate of half-eaten egg mystery loaf. Even drenched in syrup, it tastes like death. Guess, not every new recipe experiment she makes can be great.

"Fuck right off. It's low carb and low calorie." She giggles, brushing her shoulder-length blonde hair behind her ears.

"Well, next time, use bread." I stand up from the table, take my plate with me, and scrape the remaining food into the trash. No way in hell I'm saving this as leftovers. "Are you working tonight?" I ask, loading my plate into the dishwasher along with the pile of dishes that consume our counters from her cooking breakfast. Cassie can cook, but she sure can't clean.

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