Untitled (FICTION)

I walk in through the front door. "What the fuck is this?" I yell, tossing my keys across the room. It's been three seconds and she's already managed to piss me off. She pulls her feet off the coffee table, fear reflecting in her eyes. I love having this control over her. Her eyes are beautiful though; they really are. I will probably miss them most. 

She scrambles to her feet as I draw near, pulling her gaze away. She has no idea what she did wrong, and I'll admit, sometimes neither do I. But it's better this way than being Mr. Nice Guy. Nice guys never get too far. 

"Is there any food in this damn house?" I growl. She runs in the direction of the kitchen, mumbling something under her breath. Well, I think to myself, I have time to take a shower, eat a nice meal, and then the deed must be done. 

I walk into the bedroom and close the door. She has no business in here anyways; her place is in the kitchen. I undress and look at myself in the mirror. Shit, I think, for a man of 44, I'm in damn good shape. The gym membership has definitely been worth the money. And that hussy at work isn't so bad either, I smile to myself in the mirror. Lunch breaks aren't all that bad. 

I climb into the shower and turn on the hot water. The sting of the heat slaps my skin senseless, but I stand there and take it. I like the pain. Besides, I probably deserve it. Tonight's the night.

I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around myself. In the mirror, my skin is bright red, scorched. It looks disgusting but it feels great. She will like it. 

I make my way towards the kitchen, praying, for her sake, there's a hot meal on the table. I won't hit her. Not tonight. No, it would be too much before...

I stop at the door and I listen to the noises coming from within the kitchen. She's hustling about, worried what I will think, what I will say, what I will do. She trains well. It makes me sad a little, but tonight is the night. I walk into the kitchen, pleased with myself. 

(to be continued)