The evening sun shone strongly through the fractured kitchen window, only to illuminate how my home reflected my marriage. A kaleidoscope of shattered promises, our bittersweet splinterd life. A livid, desperate dream.
That damn whore had wrecked my house, wrecked the home I had worked hard to make for us. She had taken her good scissors and shredded my clothes, my best suit, the curtains, bed sheets. it looked like she had even used them to gash holes in the mattress and chairs.
I knew she had left. Packed her things and gone. Bitch. The only message she left was written smugly; proudly, on the back of our only wedding photo, it lay there crumpled and dog-eared, on the dated kitchen table. The bullet hole her full stop, signature. It read ''Fuck You.''
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