It was raining.
I let the rain soak my clothes and hair, washing me clean.
I watch the blood run down my hands and mix with the water, turning it to a pink that reminds me of roses. He used to bring me roses once a month. Dozens of them.
My wistful smile turns to a sneer of rage as her face floats into my blurring vision. She reaches towards me, imploring me to help her. Her eyes say it all: this couldn’t be happening. Not to Little Miss Perfect. Everyone loves her. Should love her. She’s young and vibrant and has her whole life ahead of her. She shouldn’t be laying in the gutter, gasping for breath.
She grabs my pant leg, pulling herself out of the water rushing into the grate. I let her get to her knees, then I kick her down. Again. And again. Eventually, she stops struggling.
I raise my face into the falling rain and close my eyes. I take a deep breath, exhaling the pain, frustration, and anger.
I straighten my wet clothes and hair, then run into the house to kiss my kids goodnight.