A ringing bell in the near-distance makes her delicate body tremble, as she sat on the corner of the opaquely purple stained living room sofa. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. She grew in despair of how that pattern of sound had aroused the tiny hairs on her crinkling hands. She exhales repulsively the last draft of the cigarette she just turned off. A glance at the silver-rimmed ashtray, which rests an arm’s reach away, powerfully depicts that it was one of those nights again.
She was content not too long ago. Pampered by his tender words. He was the father of the children they never had. She would name her first born Alexander. Defender of Man. They would live a joyful life, far away from the city’s lights. Far away from it all.
That day he did not pick up his gun and secure it in his holster from the smoothly sanded wooden table near the bed they shared as he went to work. That day he did not kiss her forehead, a gesture of safety, which she was so used to every morning. The silent kiss reassured her, everything will be okay and that he will be back sooner than later. That day he did not wake her up from her sleep. Not intentionally at least. That day she woke up to the sound of a bang in the near-distance of their home. That day she was surrounded with thick red. That day she understood how selfish human beings can be.
She began to shiver uncontrollably, tightly grabbing her left elbow with her right hand. She picks up a container of sky blue ovals which lay on the table in front of her next to her near-empty pack of cigarettes. She recalls what the doctor had said, “One every time you get an attack, ONE ONLY.” One never did the job, neither did five. That day she took ten. That day she slept well.