Shock on Wetherby Close

Ronnie had his faults, but he never hit me. I hadn't thought of him in months, and suddenly, there he was, in the front of my mind. Tomorrow, I'd make Jac sort the freezer out. The ice was hurting my hands, and I couldn't find anything. I was sure we'd got some ice packs in here. Ronnie had been withdrawn, addicted to his phone, and emotionally unavailable, but he was never abusive. He complained a lot, he could be rude, and he was often incompetent, but he wasn't a bad person. As such. A crappy husband maybe, but not a bad person. Not malicious. I pressed the pack of peas to the side of my face, letting it mould to my eye socket. Arsehole! How dare he! I stalked out of the kitchen and headed for the stairs, still holding my makeshift ice pack to my throbbing face. I didn't look in on Jac. In my minds eye I pictured him, a forlorn lump under a blanket. At least, I imagine him forlorn. Hard to think of anyone that still being happy. I went to bed - MY bed - leaving him to stew on the sofa. Would he though? Would he chew over bitter words, or regret hasty tempers? Could he, even now, feel anything at all? I softened my step on the landing, not wanting to wake Tansy. I stripped off, leaving my clothes for Jac to pick up in the morning. I splashed somewhat more than necessary, and didn't trouble to clean up the toothpaste smears from the en suite sink. The sheets were cool against my skin. I sighed into them, telling myself I loved having all this space to stretch out. The peas were already becoming softer and soggier, and losing some of that soothing chill. I reached for my phone: it would be so easy to text him, tell him to bring me a fresh ice pack. Would he interpret that as reconciliation though, instead of plain old laziness? How bad would the bruising and swelling be in the morning? How much make up would it take to cover it? What would I say to the girls? What would the neighbours think? It took a long time to fall asleep, but I did eventually, curled into a tight ball. The thawing peas made a rebellious puddle on the pillow Jac normally lay on. I slept poorly. I woke several times, dreaming Jac was stood over me, hand outstretched for my throat... Who knew what he might do if he was malfunctioning? When I woke in the morning, I could feel something was wrong. It was like those mornings when your alarm hasn't gone off, and the sunlight laughs at you through the gap in the curtains. I fumbled to check the time. Barely 6.30am. I could go back to sleep. I could... except... The girls! I fairly flew out of my wide, cold bed. What if he'd taken his anger out on them? I tugged my bathrobe on, and swore when the sleeve caught the door handle. How could I have been so stupid! I should have locked him in somewhere Restrained him somehow. Their beds were empty. I hurried downstairs, checking every room. As if any of them were still here. They weren't. of course they weren't. I knew it. I'd known it the moment I'd opened my eyes. I'd felt the emptiness of the house, the wrongness of it.... There, on the kitchen floor, was the neural chip Jac had clawed out of his own head, surrounded by spatters of dark, congealing blood. +

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