January 8, 2011 by Mark Lidstone

One Week Ago

I walked down the long hallway in my house towards the familiar sound of my wife in her rocking chair. I followed a trail of mud and dirt on the hardwood floor and approached the chair from behind. The rain pounded loudly against the window. Fear clenched my stomach.

I slowly placed my hand on my wife’s shoulder. She didn’t flinch – didn’t move. I circled the chair and stared in horror at the dress she’d worn for our anniversary dinner. What was once a beautiful gown of black silk was now torn and covered in mud.

I slowly moved my eyes up her body towards her face. I paused at her neck and stared silently at the finger shaped bruises on her throat. I reached out to touch them but stopped myself. I looked into her eyes – she stared back into mine.

Her stare was cold. It gave me goosebumps and iced my veins. Tears sat on the edge of her eyelids. Mud and scratches covered her face. I could feel her eyes pierce me. Filled with terror and sadness. They looked the same one week ago when I had taken her life.