A Picture is Worth A Thousand Words- Shattered Dreams

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Brittany stood helplessly wringing her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks as she looked across at her husband, Frank.

He was sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by shards of glass, fuming. He didn't even seem to notice that his fists were bleeding. And Brittany wasn't sure if the droplets of red which fell in perfect little circles to the floor and then spread weren't also pieces of her heart.

"You are the biggest mistake of my life," he spat, and the spit, like acid, burned through the walls of the little nursery in her heart where she stored and nurtured their love.

Her unforgivable sin was failing to act the role of a trusting wife, and uncovering the fact that Frank lived a double life.

Finding him asleep that evening, she had followed her intuition, a sneaking suspicion she couldn't quite put her finger on, and she had stolen his phone.

Covertly scrolling through his messages, she had found a string of steamy texts, one of which was a sucker punch to the chest: a heart emoji followed by the words,I love you, words he could never withdraw, never convince her were not true.

The blue ticks suggested the message had been read. She checked the time it had been sent, instantly closed her eyes and pressed the tips of her fingers against her head. It was earlier that evening when she was standing in the kitchen, cooking his dinner. And so, hands shaking, heart breaking, the room swimming before her, she had dialed the number.

The women on the other end answered, at first soft and sultry, and then when faced with her questions, had ended the call callously, but not before saying, "Go to bed."

Maybe she should have taken the advice, it might have all made sense in the morning, but she didn't. Impulse taking control of all reason, she had shaken him awake, and as he blinked, eyes still cloudy with sleep, she had thrust the phone before his face.

"Go to bed," he had said and turned away.

Brittany snapped. She flung the phone at his back. It tumbled to the floor, she heard it crack, and immediately- as though he was never asleep- he sat up. In that moment, she knew. This would be her fault too.

She should never have looked at his phone.

She should have never forced him awake.

She, as a woman, never knew her place. This was the reason why he cheated, it was all her fault.

He grabbed the phone. Spider webs ran across the screen.

"You b-!" He hurled the expletive at her. She knew he wouldn't hit her, but still she cowered as he charged past her, overturning the couch, and heading for the door. "I DON'T WANT THIS!"

Chasing after him impulsively, she held on to the end of his jersey, begging him to listen. He shrugged her off and smashed his hand through a glass panel in the door. Glass flew everywhere and there was blood all over the floor.

Brittany's brain raced quickly, but she could not think of any way to contain the disaster. And so, she conceded: *He *deserved better than this. He deserved a better person: less of a busybody, less of a homebody. He deserved somebody who could satisfy him, because then he'd never have cause to go creeping into the skirts of another woman.

She believed the lie for a moment, but then, the little stubborn voice in the back of her head which refused to be silenced, scoffed: "What absolute nonsense!"

Death has a rotten smell and taste, even if it's the death of one's dreams. Brittany was deflated, she had lost the will to fight. She sat in the midst of the rubble and choked on the remains of her dreams for a perfect marriage that night.

At one time, she had fancied herself Cinderella, but her Prince Charming had turned into Rumpelstilskin. She cursed the mirage. She wasn't violent, but she passionately hated the woman for insidiously sneaking into their marriage, proposing a menage, lying beneath their sheets, stealing her husband's heart and shattering hers together with the shards of glass still stuck to his bleeding fist.

"Mummy?" She turned at the sound of the timid voice behind her. Her son who was just three, stepped gingerly over the pieces of glass, eyeing the chaos curiously, before holding on to the edge of her skirt and expectantly sucking his finger.

"Come to bed, baby," she said wearily, lifting the child to her hips and turning away. Frank had the grace at least to remain silent.

Later that night, as she tapped her baby's back gently, choking back tears and singing softly, "hush little baby, please don't cry", she heard the front door close quietly, and she knew that Frank was gone.

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Guys,

The Freewriters Community has issued another challenge, this one a picture prompt. Please consider participating. I have found that taking part in prompts and challenges really provide you with an opportunity to strengthen your craft as a writer and gives you a chance to grow creatively alongside others. So if you can, please check it out. Here's the link.

My motivation for this piece was to bring awareness to the issue of domestic conflict from the perspective of a woman who, in addition to dealing with issues within her home, is going through an internal struggle trying to resolve the cultural and social norms which previously framed her identity as wife with the conflict that arises when her logic challenges those norms. At the same time, she is striving to fulfil her role as a mother to a boy who will one day grow to become man and husband. I hope I was able to achieve this. Thank you for reading!