She tapped her feet impatiently, and looked at the clock. Time, was of essence. Precision, even more so. Their life worked like clockwork, day after day. Routine was their source of comfort. Obsession, people called it. Attention to detail, to time.
But then she found out, what she wasn’t supposed to. About the other woman. His other life. And chaos seeped in.
She looked at the clock. One minute to seven.
That’s all that was left to her plan.
In a minute, he would walk in, as he did every day.
In a minute, he would find her lying on the floor, in a pool of her blood.
He would run to their medical box, kept in the cupboard in the study. It was well stocked with all the necessary items, of that, she had made sure. His surgical skills would kick in, and he would be working on her wrists, even as he dialed for help.
With clammy hands, she looked at the clock, as the minute hand silently slid into place.
The knife she held in her right hand worked with surgical precision, and with one sharp movement, she cried out, looking down at the crimson trail now forming down her arm.
She smiled, as she heard the click of the door, and footsteps. He would be reminded of where his heart truly lay, and would finally leave her. And come back home.
Downstairs, he entered their living room, and paused.
Did he leave the light in his office on? Or did he switch it off?
Cursing under his breath, he turned and headed towards his car, knowing he wouldn’t sleep a minute that night otherwise.
“Stupid minute details!”
This post is part of the A Word A Week Challenge.(Week 2: Minute)