"I mean," the women with red hair and a pale complexion said with a laugh, holding a glass of red wine in her hand, "can you blame me? How can anyone be good with only one leg?" Everyone laughed at her statement, agreeing with her tremendously.
One night every week the wives on the street would meet up at one another's houses and gossip while the men stayed home with the kids, letting their wives enjoy themselves for a night. But what the men didn't know was that their wives were talking behind their back. What the men did know - all but one knew, really - however, was that that days gathering was at the red heards house.
Her house was beautiful, but very decorative, filled with paintings and beautiful, sharp glass sculptures with sharp ends. It was a little cluttered and overwhelming, which made it rare for them to gather at the red head's house.
"I know." her friend with black hair exclaimed in agreement. "My husband, while he may be good with the kids is so not good in bed. The amount of times I have faked is alarming!"
Another girl - one with blonde hair and blue eyes - agreed, snorting into her glass. She sipped some wine before continuing. "My husband has the weirdest fetishes!" She cringed, reliving the memories. "He likes to be dark and, while it can be hot, he is creepy. Blind folding me . . ." She shuddered and they all snickered. "I hate it so much." She complained to her friends.
"Mine is worse." The red headed woman countered. "You may think he looks pretty, but his body is so ugly that I actually beg to be blindfolded. It's worse that I want to. I mean he is in great shape . . . but his scars are so hideous that the first time I saw them I had to wilm my body not to gag."
She sighed in amusement. "But alas, we were already married, I couldn't leave."
All the women gave her sympathetic glances. She saw how the room went silent around her, so she clapped her hands together and gave a bright smile. "But it's funny because I claim that I love him and all his scars, when I hate them. I mean, I love the guy but I find him hideous. It's hilarious, I swear, to see how happy he looks when I reassure him that I love him!"
Everyone laughed at her statement, lightening the mood, just like she intended. She would hate to have the night be ended early because of a small mishap of words!
"I mean," he heard his red headed wife laugh. "Can you blame me? How can anyone be good with only one leg?" He also heard the laughter that came along with laughter. He knew other had agreed and told their own opinions, but all he could think was that she had violated him in a deep way.
He only heard her hurtful truths and her penetrating regrets. Tears pooled in his eyes. He was always self-conscious about his body since the war that left him ugly - as his wife admitted - and handicapped. She knew all these things about him. How he thought himself ugly and a monster. A melted metal machine, that's what he referred to himself. He couldn't believe that his own wife - his partner - thought these things and just said them to other people easily.
"Mine is worse." His wife added. "You may think he looks pretty, but his body is so ugly that I actually beg to be blindfolded. It's worse that I want to. I mean he is in great shape . . . but his scars are so hideous that the first time I saw them I had to wilm my body not to gag."
He looked down at himself, staring down at his body - his prosthetic leg that wasn't visible through his jeans, the scars that littered his arms and hands.
He didn't think his wife could hurt him anymore, but he was quickly proven wrong. "But it's funny because I claim that I love him and all his scars, when I hate them. I mean, I love the guy but I find him hideous. It's hilarious, I swear, to see how happy he looks when I reassure him that I love him!"
Thinking back to all those times that he had cried on her shoulder, all those times that she soothed him. Now all he could think was that she was internally laughing at him, like the way she and her friends were doing so now. How, he thought to himself, could anyone love me?
His wife, who claimed to love him - all of him - just admitted that she wished she could take back her marriage. That she hated looking at him, being with him.
Why did he ever think that someone could actually like him? Why did he think anyone could appreciate his skills. He clearly couldn't please her, which was always something he worried about and voiced his concerns about. To which she reassured him that he was great.
And maybe his wife didn't love him, but he did love her. And he knew her well. So the betrayal stung more once hearing how lightly and smoothly she said it. With no remorse whatsoever. He knew the gathering was tonight, but never thought it would be here. It was never here. Was this what they talked about, Jace asked himself. He couldn't believe his wife - his ears. He wished it wasn't true. He wouldn't be able to take the pain of knowing his wife disliked him so much.
Not being able to take the pain anymore, he let his tears dribble down his face in big blobs. Quivering, he hastily ripped his t-shirt off his body, throwing it across the room. He had banged into something, alerting the women that someone was their.
They all turned to his direction, their faces filled with worry and curiosity. They all gripped the furniture. He hung his head low and walked out the hall, presenting himself to the group of worried women.
Some gasped and eyed his deformed chest. Some smirked. But he didn't care. All he cared was what his beautiful, red headed wife, who he knew was too good for him,
His wife's breath caught. She was the only who hadn't relaxed. He looked at her tense form and then her face and gave a small smile.
"I'm sorry that I wasn't good enough for you. I knew no one could love me. How could they? I'm a monster. I'll release you from the torment which is being married to something as hideous and vomit-inducing as I. I am sorry." What hit his wife the most, he could tell, was the sincerity in what he said.
He took one of the many sharp, pointed, glass sculptures that stood on a shelf in his hand and raised it to his throat, murmuring over and over how sorry he was for not being "good enough for you."
All the women stood and sat there silently, fearful of the scene in front of them. All except one; his wife. "Look," she pleaded, tears forming in her eyes as she took a hesitant step towards him. "I didn't mean it." She offered a sympathetic smile to him, hoping he reciprocated, but he didn't. His eyes that had previously been casted down looked up at her. Nothing but sorrow and hope shining in his glazed his eyes. "I love you - all of you." She begged.
He shook his head, a serene smile forming in his lips. "I hope you're happy." Those were the last words he said before he brought the tip of the sculpture to his throat and slit his throat quickly. He fell to the floor, grasping at his throat gurgling in blood. All the women were frozen in fear and disbelief.
The now widowed wife ran to her husband and fell to the floor next to him, sobbing. "I'm sorry," she repeated to his form as she cradled him. And in that moment she wanted nothing more than to memorize his scars, his flaws. His beauty that she wished she relished more before he slit his throat and she was cradling him, sobbing over his body.