At Saturday Morning Writers, we do various writing exercises with fun prompts, and this was a particularly challenging one. The result was tremendous! Everyone had some pretty bizarre ideas!
The sun was rising just above the horizon and Miguel's mind was numb from his wife's screaming. He stared straight ahead into the mirror in his large windowless studio and admired the horse-hair toupee now stuck on to his formerly balding scalp by the local barber.
"Oye Senor! It will make you handsome again, no?" the barber had grinned toothlessly as he adjusted the lopsided catastrophe.
Miguel had walked back to his studio proudly, while failing to notice the horrified looks of the townsfolk. His wife dropped the dinner plates when she laid her eyes on him. What ensued after were four hours of white noise. She was a loud woman and could be heard all the way down the street.
"Eh! What is wrong with you? You think you are young again? You old stupid fool! You look mad, you think the girls will look at you? You think you think people will buy your paintings with this dead animal on your head?" She would not stop.
Miguel, devastated by her torment, quietly retreated into their bedroom. She followed him inside, screaming some more. Then she became violent. Pillows and blankets flew in his direction. "Stupido! I hate it! I don't want to look at you!"
Miguel began his nightly routine in the bathroom and tried to block out her high pitched shrieking. Just as he was finishing up, he accidentally dropped his shaving kit and cut his finger on the razor blade. Would he? No but he could not. Yes he would. That was the only way. After all these years, he would show her who was really boss.
He picked up the razors and crept to her bedside. She had fallen asleep and was now snoring peacefully. He almost regretted his decision. Miguel could make out the shape of her neck with the clear moonlight streaming in through the window.
Slish, slish, two quick gashes and a choking sound from her. That was it. He was free.
The adrenaline rushed through his body and reminded him of the time his father had swung him up and down over andover again. It had made him so giddy with happiness and fear. It felt just like that.
He was filled with renewed energy. He looked at the blood gushing out like a rapid stream from her neck, and then at his blood-soaked hands. Miguel sped to his studio in a frenzy and began to paint with his bare hands.
"This is my winner," he was laughing. "I will be rich!"
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