maelstrom \MAYL-struhm\
noun:
1. A large, powerful, or destructive whirlpool.
2. Something resembling a maelstrom; a violent, disordered, or turbulent state of affairs.
In the City by the River
In the city by the river there was a white house with violet shutters. There were three concrete steps leading to the front porch, and the second one had a corner chipped off. Three locks, including a deadbolt, secured the front door. One of the light switches in the foyer didn't work unless you turned off the one directly beside it; the house had come with convoluted circuiting when the current owners had bought it. The west wall in the kitchen had a recently painted-over, barely perceptible crack toward the bottom. The counters and surfaces in the kitchen were always meticulously clean, practically unlived in. Whenever it would storm, water dripped steadily from a crack in the ceiling into a metal bucket waiting below it. The fifth stair to the basement always creaked when you stepped upon it, as did the seventh, but few ever found this out; the basement door was almost always closed.
In the city by the river there was a man who loved a woman. They had grown up together as children and had always been friends. Life had never been able to topple them as long as they had each other. He adored her as surely as a dragon loves his treasure, and he desired to keep her hoarded away from the world just the same. She was precious to him, and he was always ready to defend her should she require protection.
They were destined for separate ways, though, and soon parted to different schools. He still kept in contact with her, and she with him, but things were not quite the same. The once inseparable duo began to drift apart. Eventually she called less and less, but his adoration for her only grew with absence; the ideal began to overtake reality. One day, however, he called her, and a male voice greeted him. Stunned but not shattered, he quietly hung up the phone.
He kept track of her as she grew older and moved on. She searched for him sometimes, attempted to call him and talk to him. He warmly greeted this outreach and was happy simply to be a part of her life. He soon realized, though, that he would only ever be her friend. Man after man gained and lost the privilege of her love, and he was never even given the opportunity. A part of him stubbornly believed if he hung on long enough, he would be the only one for her.
By coincidence, they eventually moved to the same city. They began to see each other more often and slowly slip back into the old rhythm of things. Eating lunch together became an everyday routine. They were true friends again, and each was delighted in each other's company. He grew even more protective of her and constantly went out of his way to keep her safe.
He knew it was inevitable; the love-stricken stars (always shining for another) had long glittered in her eyes. When she showed him the diamond ring given to her by another man, however, the glimmer of the stone was shadowed by the bruise on her arm. Ugly and purple, the blemish wrapped around her forearm; it appeared to be hidden some by makeup. When he asked her what had happened, she replied with the finesse of an actress that she had slammed her arm against a metal desk at work.
He told her she was in danger and urged her to leave her fiancé. She refused and accused him of petty jealousy. The overdramatic protests she presented only made him that much surer of her situation. He tried to reason with her; she slapped him.
He sat at lunch alone now.
She stiffly assured him she was happy. She told him time and time again her husband was the sweetest man in the world. She told him of their many vacations and escapades, how he always remembered her birthday and their anniversary.
What she failed to mention was how he had once thrown a wrench so violently out the front door that it had chipped of a piece off the second stair. What she failed to mention was how she once forgot to cook dinner before he had gotten home and he had tossed her against the wall in a violent rage, what she forgot to mention was how he made her clean the house top to bottom every night after work and cooking dinner for him or else he'd break her, what she failed to mention was how sometimes when it stormed her screams rang louder than thunder and her tears dripped more steadily than the leak in the ceiling, what she failed to mention was how damn common it was to hear the fifth and seventh stairs creak as she was roughly thrown down the basement stairs and locked down there to bleed and cry in dark and dusty solitude.
What she failed to notice was the pair of blue eyes always watching through the violet shutters.
In the city by the river, night had fallen, and the air was thick with the tension of a coming storm.
He walked through the streets with a mechanical rage in his step. Overhead, the clouds cracked with the first sound of rumbling thunder.
He smiled.
He passed hurrying mothers and daughters as he walked on. A sudden, impulsive force in his body wished he could grab the son of a bitch and force him to look at the innocence in their faces, force him to realize exactly what he had done to her, what he had driven out of her. He wanted to scream at that piece of filth about how lucky he was, and how he was tossing rubies into the river with the way he was treating his wife. He wanted to throw the idiot into the street and hit him head on with a truck just so he could feel the bite of all the abuse he had dealt out, he wanted to kick him down the steps of City Hall and spit on his face and verbally rip him apart until his mind was weakened by the mental abuse so he could maybe feel some semblance of how he deep he hurt her; he wanted to do so many things, but there was only one that could start to rectify the situation.
He turned the corner and slowly slipped on a pair of gloves.
He knew he could never get through the front door, but he did know a back way in. One of the windows never quite shut all the way, so he took advantage and snuck inside. He wondered what other secrets he knew that her husband didn't. He wondered if he knew she loved to do the crossword puzzle in the newspaper, or how she always doodled on her napkin while she was eating, or how she secretly loved scary movies even though she publicly scoffed at them. A slow drop fell from the ceiling; it was starting to rain. As he headed to the kitchen, he wondered at how climactic, how dramatic the night had become. Hollywood couldn't pay for a better setup, really.
He was grateful for the sound, for the thunder. More than just for effect, maybe it would give him more time to do this right.
He stepped into the kitchen. It was pristine still, but there was a clear lack of attention. He roughly grabbed a knife from its hook on the wall. He supposed a kitchen couldn't be kept spotless when its caretaker was in the hospital, immobilized. His fingers curled around the smooth plastic of the handle, and he swiftly exited the kitchen.
Within a moment, he stood in the bedroom doorway, his face a grim portent of revenge. Step by slow step he snuck closer to the man who had tarnished his treasure. The detestable man was sprawled selfishly across the sheets, his arms splayed about randomly; he didn't appear to miss his wife.
Rage boiled within him, and his arms gave a tremor of suppressed wrath. He ground his teeth with fury as his fingers clutched the knife tighter and tighter until his knuckles turned white and he could feel the pulse of his fingers drumming against the smooth plastic and he felt his mouth salivate with blood lust as he envisioned the crunching of bone and the spurting of blood and the astonished gurgling screams as the man writhed in his deaths throes as he stabbed and stabbed through muscle and arteries once for every time the despicable man beneath him had caused her pain and he
did
not
want
to
waste
any
more
time.
He felt no regret as he held the knife poised directly above the sleeping man's heart. In fact, he knew he was doing her a service; she would thank him, he was sure.
After all, sometimes in order for one light to shine, the other has to be turned
.
.
.
Off.