Not Always a Stranger


It was a perfect cold . . . his love, his passion.
Sweat fell from his chest onto hers as she closed her eyes and waited.
She prayed this moment would not be her lifetime.
She waited. Thoughts and questions raced through what was left of her consciousness; was it her fault, why his anger; why?

She waited.

The guttural sounds forced from his throat matched the movements of his body. She screamed, silently, as she waited. She could feel his pleasure coming to an end; his hands tightened around her neck, the rage in his eyes became an even cool and his body became limp.

She waited. The hate in his eyes for her, his lover, his wife; cold.

Tears fell.