Pardon Celine's profanity; according to the game, she was in a drunken rage. While I don't agree with Jacob not telling his wife that he wanted to have her committed for her alcoholism, he probably felt like he had no choice, as Celine was verbally, mentally, and (probably physically) abusive in the past. Similarly, while I can sympathize with Celine's frustration and misery over giving up her career of a famous aviator, it was (a) her choice to marry Jacob, and (b) wrong of her to take out her anger on her husband.

Prompt: Things Lost

Words: 482

"Look at me!" Celine shrieked, "Look at what you've done to me!" The frying pan clanged as it smacked off the fridge, knocking off the magnets and shopping list. She stumbled on the former, the pan banging off the countertop. Grabbing the counter at the last moment, she stopped herself from falling all the way.

Much to his shame, Jacob found that he wanted to laugh at his wife, splayed painfully on the floor with her skirt pushed up past her knees, and her caked-on lipstick and eye makeup making her look like a clown.

In concern, he held out a hand for her, while still keeping a safe distance. "Celine," he begged, "come on, get off the floor."

She breathed hard, her free wrist twisting across the floor, a cut on its side from falling on the magnets.

Jacob took a careful step forward.

Celine jumped up, whipping the frying pan about.

Jacob backed into the hallway as she swung after him. Glass broke as she hit a mirror. Plaster dented and chipped.

His eyes widened, and he dropped his guard for a moment as she gasped, waving out her hand in pain from the wound in her wrist being ripped back open from the falling glass.

She leapt forward, beating him roughly across the neck. "I was famous! Now I'm no one, just like you!" Jacob grunted in pain, knowing that he would probably sport a bruise. Blood streamed down the side of her arm. "Fight like a man, you fucking pussy!"

Celine, her smiling face obscured by a veil, declared earnestly, "I do."

Celine Henry had said, "I do," but he didn't recognize her now. He hated this thing that wore her skin, ate his food, and shared his bed, but was not her.

His fist connected with her face, and the pan thumped as it hit the carpet.

Celine's hands flew to her face, and she bent her knees in pain. Whimpering, she backed away from him.

"Celine," he called, his voice thick with emotion as he struggled against tears, "I'm s—"

"Get the hell away from me!" Her hands fell to reveal a swollen black eye. She darted off, slamming the front door behind her.

Jacob held out a hand after her, but dropped it just as soon upon seeing how badly dented the frying pan on the floor was.

Real Celine, false Celine, it didn't matter. He left a note addressed to a Celine for when she at last returned home.

But Celine would never walk through the door again, and here was this know-it-all detective, sitting smugly across the table with a wedding band on his finger, that had the gall to accuse him of her death being his fault.

For Jacob's sake, there was only the truth to tell. "I loved my wife. And I'll take any test you got to prove it."