Luke leaned against a large rock. His face shone with sweat even though the wind tore at us and the air coming off the river was freezing. I knelt next to him and smiled.
"I hoped you would die this way."
He looked at me through his fever of pain, “Why?” He managed.
“Because I hate you. But I also didn’t want to kill you myself. I can’t go to jail.”
He began to cry. I sat back and chuckled, “Bit late for that, my love.”
I pulled out my cell phone, “Look at that, no reception.” I put it back in the pocket of my down coat which barely kept the cold out. “I’ll have to climb back up and try to get help. It’ll take ages.”
I pulled out a sandwich and an orange, “Hungry?” I asked him.
He turned his head away and cried. I ate and thought about my future. Finally, my future. Not ours.
“You’re a shitty husband, you know that?” I looked at him.
He turned hurt eyes on me, “H-how c-c-could you s-s-say that?”
“Oh fuck you, Luke. The control, the pissy mood when things don’t go your way. Walking on eggshells when you’re grumpy. I won’t miss you.”
I stretched my legs out and got as comfortable as I could.
“Pleas-s-se,” he stammered. His lips were blue, his skin was ashy.
“Please what, Luke? You could’ve said please a long time ago. Or thank you, or I’m sorry,” I let out a scream of rage.
He looked terrified. Of me? I laughed again.
“I’m not going to waste my time thinking about how much I hate you, Luke. I’m just going to sit back and watch you die.”
(c) Katrina Hayes