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Cold Steel

Cold Steel

Undoubtedly, she’d appreciate it. Surely, she’d thank him for it later. His eyes were a tragic symphony waiting to pronounce a melancholy medley to the dark, silent night that was his car. His knuckles turned white as his hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice. His body felt numb and he didn’t even feel the first stream of tears quickly slide down his cold, steel cheek. He felt like a robot. A mere machine, like the vibrator she kept under their bed that she used to abstain from sex with him. His heart had been ripped from his hollow, tin chest and been held in her fake nailed fingers. Her nails had been painted blue that night. An ice cold blue, his heart was undoubtedly frozen.

With each passing light post, he wanted to steer his car into its cold steel. Undoubtedly, she’d appreciate it. Surely, she’d thank him for it. This way she could receive his life insurance instead of a divorce court finding her guilty and leaving her with nothing. He didn’t want to leave her with nothing. He wanted to give her everything. Everything she had ever desired, he put into motion. He loved her more than he ever loved anything, more than his children, more than himself.

He envisioned his SUV topping out at 110 and running straight into the shimmering beacon of light, the warm flame that had been extinguished months before. In the white strobe lights, he heard her laughter. They had found each other in the stroboscope, searchlights bringing two lost souls together, forming an everlasting bond, or so he thought.

Now the lingering image of strobe lights wasn’t the night two young hearts set out on a great journey of lust and love. It was her laughter, her high pitched squeal, the one he had fallen in love with, but he wasn’t on the receiving end. He wasn’t supposed to be hearing these squeals. They were more intense and much more inebriated than the squeals he heard when he had first found her among the strobe lights. The strobe lights he found her in tonight were painted in light blue, shaded in a dark chill. The air was cold, but her clear complexion unfroze the solid, raw tunes.

The sight of her inebriation and the man holding her with a drink in his other hand, made him feel nauseous. Shock began to set in and he became idle. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak, all he felt was a sudden cold rush over his skin causing outstanding goosebumps. Standing on the dance floor, idly watching them near the bar, he was nothing more than a mere trophy. A gold plated metal trophy, a man she had conquered, readily pursuing her next quest.

Her dark hair slowly falling over her face, she puckered her lips seductively just as she used to do before they made love, now over a month and a half ago. He couldn’t stand to watch her in the dim light any longer. He quickly walked from the bar and climbed into his SUV. In no time he was speeding on the highway back toward home, back to their two sleeping children.

Their boys whined a little as they hugged their mother good bye, asking where she was going so late at night. She lied and said she was going to her office to pick up a file. This was a good enough excuse for them and they were able to sleep afterwards. He couldn’t look past her lies and followed her to the bar where he conclusively found that she had been lying to him for weeks.

He began to fear nothing, not even death, as he pushed down harder on the accelerator. Actually, he prayed that he would soon hit something, feeling the cold, hard steel of the car crush into him, paralyzing his body. Then she’d be sorry. She’d feel the guilt that she had coming. But he was never any good at revenge, especially to her. He could never rebel against her for it was she that wore the pants; it was she that had made him a eunuch. Even so, he had a devotion for the pity she had for him.

Still, he pulled into their long, curving driveway and parked his blue SUV in the place where her convertible usually sat, now sitting in VIP parking at the bar on Fifth and Main. Checking upon their two silently sleeping boys, he walked down the hallway, a castle corridor paved and lined in cold hard stone. Slipping under the chilling sheets of calignosity and infidelity, he felt like he was lying on the cold, steal of an operating table. He silently cried into his already wet pillow, rolled over, reached for her, only to grasp nothing.

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