A Crime of Passion

It took a second. A single second and he was gone, I struck him once. Twice. Three times. I can’t really remember. All I remember is the stench of deceit that lingered in the air afterwards, An aroma that was too familiar to me since that last December. I acted fast. I seized the suitcase. It clung to the last memories we had A memory of affliction and treachery. Of lies he spun to get out of his Deception. He was mine. But he wasn’t. For his gaze seemed to wander, and it caused a sudden chill of jealousy; to run down my bruised and battered spine. But now these reminiscences of a tarnished and forgotten vacation; would be vandalised by the blood of the man I once loved. Or maybe still do. But I don’t regret it. I don’t think I ever will. I don’t think I ever should.