I loved my wife, her smile, her hair, everything about her. Well, almost everything.
Every day she would sing the same song, over and over. She said something about it helping her with stress, or something about her father and when she was a kid.
I didn’t listen to her sob story, because after so many days of listening to it, I just did not care. Excuses were all she had.
I just wanted her to be quiet. I knew she had a troubled childhood. She kept trying to cry on my shoulder. I just wanted some silence around the house. I didn’t know that trying to kiss her would send her into this… this song.
One day, I snapped. I just wanted her to shut up. To stop her singing. I put my hand around her mouth to get some silence around here. She squirmed, so I pressed tighter and tighter. Suddenly, she went limp. I had killed her.
I wasn’t worried, though. She had no parents and I hadn’t any friends. We lived on her parents’ old farm, and it was so remote no one would come looking for her.
Even though she’s gone, I still remember the sound of her voice, and that song. That’s not the worst thing about life nowadays.
The silence is driving me mad.