White Walls

by Fiona Campbell

It is dark outside. She sits in her kitchen, alone at last. The first was planned and all went according to plan. The second was by chance and proved quite easy to dispose of. The third lies still warm on her kitchen floor, accusingly still and silent. This one put up a fight and her hands are stained red to prove it. She sits with her bony elbows on the thick wooden table, a cup of peppermint tea in front of her. She takes a sip and pulls a face that no one sees – it is too hot and burns her tongue.

It will soon be light and they will be looking for him. This time she knows her time is nearly up, four white walls wait silently for her. She knows what will happen, oh yes, she knows. They will question her, ask her why, link her to the others perhaps, ask her what she did with the bodies. In a distracted manner she will look through them, ignore their questions. She knows that at the end of it all those four white walls will keep her safe, keep them safe from her.

She looks up at the kitchen clock, half past four. Where is the time going today, so many things to do and all she does is sit here. She stands up, leans solicitously over the body that grows cooler by the minute. About two hours to grow completely cold, she remembers reading somewhere. She pushes fair hair, matted with his blood, out of his eyes. He was beautiful, just like the others had been. It was a pity really, that they had to die, but there it was.

The first birds start to sing and her tea sits, cold and untouched. She shifts in her chair and her limbs feel stiff from sitting so long. A knock at the door and it is all so close to the end. She stands up slowly and steps over the body, now cold and still silent, forever silent. If only he had been different, if only he had not been like all the others. The knock comes again and as her hand closes over the door knob she can see the four white walls in her mind’s eye, waiting for her.

Fiona Campbell writes while the children and the house run wild around her.

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