Part 2- the Viper.
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Michelle had been sat there on that same couch for so long, everything simmering inside of her. She wasn't the type to let things explode, and normally that worked towards her advantage, allowing her to control situations and remain authoritative even when she herself was unsure. But Tony, he just had a way of getting under her skin, he always had, and she could feel herself faltering over the edge of her control.
What was she supposed to do? He was drunk every time she saw him, and his words would be laced with acid, his normal charisma replaced by dripping sarcasm and a general depression. He wasn't threatening towards her, that wasn't his style, it was more just a sense of disdain and annoyance. The closest she'd gotten to him since he'd been released from jail was a reluctant kiss in front of an expecting audience. He was a free man and his pretty wife was waiting there for him, he should be happy, he should want to kiss her. Instead, she could feel him bristling against her touch, eager to be as far away as possible.
She hadn't expected it to be easy, she new what prison would do to people like Tony, people with ideals, morals, people who wouldn't just say, "yes". But she had expected him to try. She'd lined up job after job for him, telling herself each time he was fired that it just wasn't right for him, but that if she could find something that was, he would somehow fit back into life again.
But she was starting to reconsider, she didn't think he could fit back into life again, at least not her life, and she new for sure that she couldn't fit into his, he didn't want her to. She'd become a crutch for him, a way for him to justify his actions. She went to work everyday, so there was no need for him to. He'd just come out of a very traumatic situation, he needed time to adjust, and she needed to give him space. Not that she was giving him space anymore, she was avoiding him, avoiding everything about him.
But tonight, tonight was different. He was here, drunk again, slumped on the couch in front of some tv program. She was late home from work again, pounding headache and painful feet, looking for attention she knew wasn't going to be there. But instead of sinking into the couch- allowing angry words to simmer inside of her, so little of what she felt being allowed to slip from her, after all it was her he'd gone to prison for, she'd done something entirely different. She'd caught sight of herself in the mirror.
Dark hair was in disarray, half curls escaping in all directions. She'd ripped it out on the way home, trying to prevent the headache that already had control of her. Makeup was still meticulously applied, but nothing could hide the exhaustion in her eyes. Her tiny form was more or less swamped from the coat she'd hidden herself in. It had been a present several years ago, he failed to see how he should sympathise with her perpetual coldness when she insisted upon wearing such a ridiculously flimsy jacket. She wore it now to hide from him more than from the cold.
Seeing herself like this, a hectic mess in the middle of such disarray, something just snapped. She finally saw that she couldn't go on living like this, wouldn't. Her words to him, which before had so gentle in suggesting things, with the occasional snide comment when control wavered, became harsh. She owed him a lot, and she wasn't going to repay that debt by letting him drink himself to death. He had gone to prison for her, which was a pretty clear indication that he didn't want her to be hurt, so he could be damned if she was going to let him continue to pull her apart.
She wasn't even sure of what she was saying to him, her words an incoherent blur as everything she'd been feeling for the last six months just spilt out. Anger crept through her voice, and he understood that perhaps this was it. But she became too angry too quickly, and he left before she could get to the end of her train of thoughts, to the point of all her screaming, all of her pain. She loved him and would help him in any way that she could.
But he never heard that, and her mind never got that far, still stuck on the endless list of all the things he'd done wrong, all the ways she'd tried to help him and all the ways he'd refused.
So she'd collapsed onto the sofa, perfectly upright, no sign of any emotion. She sat there, unaware of anything but her anger and pain that was locked so deep it couldn't even let her cry. She was still sat there, simmering away, when his knife entered her stomach, his gloved fingers pressing into his mouth, her hair catching and pulling as she fell backwards.
Twisting agonies of pain paralysed her as her eyes searched for what had done this to her. In her mouth she tasted the salty warmth of blood, and wondered if she'd hit her head when she'd fallen, or if she was that badly injured.
Behind her, her assailant played with the knife that had damaged her, glinting the blood on it in the moonlight. She wasn't dead, not yet. He wondered if she would be when the bear arrived. But he smiled anyway, either way, he'd caught the viper.