I watched the door slam and the red leave my house.

Behind me, I can hear the creak as He leans forward slightly. I know what He does whenever something doesn't go his way. He puts his grey head in his hands- as if they will somehow shield him.

I feel my jaw tighten along with the knots in my stomach. I turn and walk away before He can see the tears streaming down my cheeks. My footsteps are crashing through the house, echoing off these empty grey walls and pounding out of sync with my heartbeat.

I ignore the Martha that peeps out of the kitchen. Out of the corner of my eye I see the ugly woman's tear-stained face. What's she got to be sad about? I bet she's faking it. I bet she secretly can't wait to tell the whole world of my misfortune.

I do not slam the door when I close it behind me.

I walk down the stone steps and calmly move towards my garden. I scan the flowers budding and flourishing. In the waning moonlight, they look frozen. The whole world seems frozen to me. There are only a few crickets, but even they feel recorded and looped over and over again. Mechanical.

I stand there a moment longer, trying to remember the colors of each blossom. The silver rays test my memory and I find myself mistaking the irises for tulips. This wouldn't normally happen, those tulips are my favorite flowers. I stand there, in my garden, trying to make it feel real again, but when reality refuses to bend, I finally return to the house.

The Marthas don't look out this time. When I go back down the hallway, He's retreated to his room. Fine. Let him rot in there. He's ruined both of us with his primitive desires.

My footsteps are heavy against the polished wood. Behind me, I know clods of mud are falling off my shoes and smearing on the floor. Somehow, this makes me feel a little smug.

This house I've worked so hard to keep pristine: tainted on my own terms.

Nobody will notice it I'm sure. The rest of them are lazy and greedy and they could never understand. If it weren't for me, this house would be oozing mud from every crack and crawling with all sorts of vermin.

But maybe that's what they all want.

The Marthas can catch cockroaches and eat them raw and make mud pies with twigs, clumps of grass, and flowers.

And He can let all the snakes he wants into his bed.

I enter the empty parlor and stand still, the door barely ajar. The old clock marks the time, each second making its departure with a decisive tick. If you stand still long enough, you can feel time seep through the floor. I wish I could stand there untouched until the house is a jungle. I feel the rage and fear boil up in its entirety at last as I stand there under the pulsing beat of the house. I drop my cane as I'm slowly pulled to my knees. The tears are flowing freely now. My teeth clenched tight so no sound can escape. I push one of my hands into the unyielding wood, and feel the ticks of the clock shudder through me. Each second is bringing us closer to our doom.

Already, time feels less like a heartbeat and more like a war drum.