Fog

He swept the old blue broom gingerly across the floor. The broken pieces of dishes clinked together as he swept them into a small heap. He surveyed the rest of the kitchen. There were all different colors and shapes of glass. Some were green and sapphire from their cups. There were more pieces of pure white from their dishes. There were clear pieces from the bottles of vodka and rum. All of this overlaying the dusty floor made his heart sink. There was so much left to do. He hadn’t even touched the blood yet. This was definitely their biggest fight. 


He continued sweeping the kitchen. Watching as the frayed ends of the broom swept the glass into the dark blue dustpan. He’d lift it up the modest pile in the pan, walk over to the trash can, depressed the pedal and dump it in. He repeated this a few times and slowly the debris was cleared from the floor. He looked back into the trash can and tilting the pan slowly, he carefully stacked the glass so none fell. It occurred to him that he’d need to double or even triple bag this. Once the large metal cylinder no longer kept the pieces contained, they would bulge out and pierce the bag. He walked over the freshly swept floor which made him feel a little better. A clean floor was a return to normalcy. It was a fresh start! He smiled a little as he leaned down to retrieve the garbage bags from under the sink. He quickly located the roll of trash bags amongst the bottles of cleaner and sponges. He tore off a couple and tossed the roll back under the sink. It knocked over bottles and he quickly shut the doors. He stood up and turned back to the trash can. He stuffed the bags into the back pockets of his jeans as he returned to the trash can.

He depressed the pedal and the lid flew up. He pulled the sides of the bag causing the glass to jingling around. He pulled up sharply and quickly, lifting the entire bag out of the can. He held it aloft for a moment, noting some of the pieces had pierced the bag. He set it down slowly, trying not to disturb them further. The bag suddenly gave way, tearing in various places. The glass crashed to the ground and some fragments exploded into even smaller shards. He stood there, the sea of glass at his feet. He looked from the bag to the ground. Then roared with rage. He tore the bag completely, ending up with two scraps of plastic in each hand. He kicked out viciously, denting the can and damaging the wall behind it. He kicked it further, causing it to fall over and he kicked it again into the stove. He stomped on all the glass, the crunching under his feet making him feel better. He continued venting his anger for another few moments until the glass under his feet felt like sand. He took a deep breath and looked around. There had been other trash in the bag.He could readily identify used paper towels, some black microwave food containers and a couple banana peels. He had mashed and ground other bits of trash into the floor. The red on his sneakers was marked with dark brown dirt. He was breathing heavily and decided he was done with the kitchen.

He tried to calm himself down as he walked out into the hallway. He stood again, looking at the damage from the fight. Well, his damage from the fight. She had retreated. He walked slowly down the hallway looking at photos of them. He heard the gritty sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floor. His eyes scanned over the photos. He knew they had been put in strategic positions. His eyes lingered on a Christmas photo. The two of them, right in front of the tree. They had purchased an older stand alone camera. She always liked how real photographs looked. She loved real film, none of this digital nonsense. She would use her phone only for calls. He chuckled when he remembered her reaction at him getting her a new smart phone. It wasn’t a great one. He pulled the photo off the wall and held it in his hands. His eyes purposely looked at the photo, refusing to see the crater in the wall it had revealed. He absently lifted the frame so even his peripheral vision couldn’t see the hole. 


The picture was of the two of them in front of the Christmas tree. They were smiling, standing next to each other but not touching each other. It had been unseasonably warm that year. He was wearing his khaki shorts and favorite powder blue polo. She was wearing white denim shorts and a Christmas sweater. They had fought about the phone this very year. It was coming back to him. The fight had been pretty nasty. He would apologize later and she would forgive him. They took this photo soon after. He was beaming, though his eyes looked a little guilty. Looking at her now, her smile never touched her eyes. He glanced over the sweater, the bright green tree against the black fabric. Little festive puffs of yarn representing ornaments. He sighed deeply and hung the picture back up. 


He looked down the hall and noticed muddy footprints. Had he made those? He looked down at his shoes and then over at the tracks. He lifted one foot and then glanced from the shoe to the floor. The pattern matched exactly. It was definitely him. He sighed again, he would definitely have to clean that up. She would be furious. If she were still here. 


When he had arrived home early to surprise her, he had found her in their room, packing a large suitcase that he had never seen. She told him she was leaving and, with a slight tremor in her voice, to please not stop her. He didn’t remember much. He begged, that he did remember. He pleaded with her to stay. She stayed firm. Then he remembered the hallway, still beseeching her to stay. She had made it the very hallway he was standing in now. And then it was a big red blank. 


He walked further, focusing on the doorway in front of him. The door was ajar. It led to a large indoor porch area. He pushed the door open and looked around the room. There were two large glass doors on the far wall that faced the backyard. One of them had been broken. There was blood on the jagged edges of the fractured pane. Outside of the glass door, was the suitcase from before. It had been torn open. The top flap had been ripped back and clothes had been pulled from inside and lain on the ground. Briefly it looked to him like a broken mouth with busted teeth. The clothes were like a tongue lolling out of sagging bloody lips. He shook his head and walked over to it, stepping carefully over the spikes of the damaged pane. 


He stood there, looking quizzically at the suitcase and his eyes caught something at the base of her pear tree. She loved that tree. Didn’t she? He had gotten it for her when they first moved in there. He hadn’t actually looked at it in several years. He knew it bore fruit, the most boring kind. There were pears around it now. Some looked fine, others looked sad and wet. Then his eyes came upon the fresh mound of dirt with a shovel sticking out of it. The red fog lifted and it all came back to him. They had fought so terribly, all around the house. She was going to leave and he couldn’t let that happen. She had tried to escape out the back door and he ended up pushing her through it. She stumbled out here, too shocked to scream. He had closed his hands around her throat, not letting her turn around to look at him with those accusatory eyes. She had thrashed and kicked but he barely felt the blows. Soon, they would weaken. Then stop.


They stood there, a simple brown fence between them and their neighbors. Granted this wasn’t even close to the first time they had been heard fighting. He hadn’t even realized what he had done until it was over. When he had realized, he let go in complete dread. She had dropped limply to the ground. He ran back inside, sweat pouring off him. He ran to his garage, fetched his shovel and then ran back to her. He started digging and felt faint drops on his head. He hadn’t dug the hole that deep and hadn’t even really thought what would happen if it rained. He rolled her into the shallow grave. He layered dirt on top of her. Finally sticking the shovel into the top of the mound. He thought about the mess inside and figured he’d start with the kitchen.


Now, he was back outside again. It had all replayed to him like a horror movie staring himself. The weight of what he had done drove him to his knees. Panic gripped him and he glanced all around at the various sides of the fence. He looked at his hands which were covered with small cuts. He looked back at his dirty shoes, then over at the handle of the shovel. Guilt crashed over him then and he screamed with agonized loss. The rage came again and he pounded his fists into the earth. He quickly rose and snatched the shovel out of the ground. He broke it over his knee, tossing the handle away. He took the other side and started striking the pear tree over and over. The shovel head splintered off and was flung away. He then beat at the tree with his fists until they were coated with blood. He sank down and rested his head against the tree trunk. 


He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He wiped the blood off his finger and hit the emergency button. He dialed three digits and waited. A voice answered that seemed very far away. 


He said "I'd like to report a murder."


He didn’t recognize his own voice. It was flat and toneless. The phone chattered in his ear but he didn’t hear any of it. He stated his address and told them to hurry. He had to click the big red button a few times as his hands began to bleed again. He threw the phone away and slumped against the tree. It started to rain harder. He stared at the mound of dirt that was slowly being washed away. And beheld the horror underneath. The dirt had been washed from her eyes. One was puffy and swollen shut. The other stared blankly at him. There wasn’t a glimmer of life in that dead, green eye. No sadness for how he had buried her. No fear from further harm. No anger for the life he had robbed her of. Yet the eye seemed to bore right into his soul. The rain washed more of the dirt away exposing more of her face. Her mouth had been filled with dirt, that was being sluiced away by the minute. Her face was a frozen, silent shriek. He tried to skitter backwards, forgetting the tree was behind him. He only succeeded in cutting up his back. The rain came down harder and the mound had all but disappeared. There she was, mouth over run with water, dirty streams ran from her eyes. He hands didn’t look limp but arched. As though she was trying to climb out of her poorly dug grave.

The cops arrived not long after his call. They went immediately to the backyard where they found him. Cowering and screaming.