Wringo Ink. Short Story for the Genre Psychological: It’s All In My Head.

It’s all in my head. 

Whenever she looks at me in that blank emotionless way of hers, it makes me want to throw something at her. I look down at the boning knife in my hand. I am using it to carve the rotisserie chicken that I had to get in lieu of the dinner that she forgot to make. Again.

I watch myself move. Taking unhurried steps, I go and stand in front of her. She raises her head in that cow-like way of hers and blinks at me. The same vacant stare had been waiting to pounce on me. I hate that stare because it makes me feel as if I am nothing. As if I don’t matter to merit a stare full of hatred or even a raised eyebrow in condescension. I would take anything over that stare.

I feel something pinch the thumb of my right hand and look down to see what it could be. The boning knife is still in my hand, I realize. The pinch was my body’s way of reminding me that the knife was sharp and I had cut my thumb on the blade.

Her head bobs as she looks down. Tiny garnets dot the floor as blood runs down my hand and onto the tiles. Her hideously full mouth forms a repugnant O as if I were the first human to have bled. Knives cut; that’s what they do.

I watch my hand raise itself. Mesmerized, I wait to see what my limb will do next. It flies in an arc and buries the knife where my wife’s wishbone would be if she were a bird. She is rather like a bird, isn’t she? Dumb and slow — she could be a turkey!

I know how to debone a turkey, having survived on rotisserie dinners for years now. Her lips are still stuck in that rictus like shape. I start to feel sorry for her because her throat has started to make a gurgling sound. But then I see those eyes — blank as ever — and all other thoughts flee, except:

I need to make a wish and wishes can’t be made without wishbones, can they?

Ooh, this will be fun, I am going to keep looking for it until I find the wishbone. Something snatches my attention from the very important job that I have set myself on performing. It isn’t something but someone, I realize, when a soft full set of lips brush against my cheek.

“Bye, honey! You will grab dinner on your way home, won’t you?” those lips are asking me now. I produce a smile from somewhere and manage to nod. She has already left the apartment before I am finished smiling that smile.

Luckily, it’s all in my head!

3 Comments Add yours

  1. Judi Lynn says:

    This feels shorter and punchier than I remember it–and gorier. Which means–I love it! But if I was his wife, I’d hide that knife:)


    1. Midu Hadi says:

      I have no sympathy for her! Lol

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Judi Lynn says:

        Me neither. You did a good job on her.

        Liked by 1 person

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