THE CRIMSON CARNATION

 

 

THE CRIMSON CARNATION

 

She had just retaliated after ten years of spousal abuse. Her sadistic husband lay dead, his blood oozing out on the cheap, aging linoleum that covered the kitchen floor. She had hit him over and over, as hard as she could with a greasy iron skillet with which she had cooked his last meal. The skillet was the last thing he purchased.

 

Completely relieved, she took a cigarette from the dead man’s pocket, lighting it with the “Zippo” he claimed he took off a dead German during the Battle of the Bulge. Like everything else in his life, this was a complete fabrication. He bought the lighter from a smoke shop in Moline, Illinois and never served a day in the army.

 

She left the kitchen and took a seat by the window which was facing an alley full of drunks, users, garbage and rats. She had put a flower pot on the ledge near the window. It was a pitiful excuse for a flower, but in her mind, added the only light and color to her dingy surroundings.

 

 

 

She finished her smoke and flicked the lit butt into the alley. It landed on the head of a guy too stoned to notice.

 

She walked back inside and then into the hallway to call the police from the phone hanging on the wall. At least it worked this time. She was fully aware that the rest of her life would be spent in prison, knowing she could not afford a decent attorney who could convince a jury that the killing was self-defense. Many the many cuts and scars on her body would do the trick.

 

The police arrived and handcuffed her. All she could think of as they led her out was that the color of abuser’s blood was the same as the flower facing the alley.

 

Without water, the flower slowly died. Its fading color coincided with the darkening blood on the kitchen floor.