Mary crosses her arms, Frankie is home late again. Drunk again. Frankie scowls at the undone dishes, unprepared dinner, and the stinking trash. A single incandescent bulb illuminates the two in an white slightly off.
The home swells in anticipation for the inevitable. Mary loves Frankie with all her blazing, pounding heart. She had known this was coming, still sees it in the wall's falling patterns; behind the kitchen knives which drip from hand washing.
Frankie slams her fist through the wall. It was 'do this:, 'do that', while Mary only ever lifts a finger to pull that damned lever. Worst of all, she lies about how much she loses.
"You fuck!" Mary cries. Frankie is no saint, she's always coming home drunk.
That's what she needs to deal with Mary.
Mary would never throw her fist, the plaster circles in the walls still fresh and wet from Frankie's fits.
"What do you care, Mitzie?" Frankie's use of her nickname reddens Mary's face. The room feels hot to both, moreso to Frankie. Her face was already beet red.
"You think I don't care? You're the one who keeps the credit card!" Mary throws the still wet towel. It splotches against the floor, wholly missing the target. She wants her to feel all the pain she causes. Not that they had always fought this much. But now, she oh so wants to see Frankie broken.
“That’s to keep you from losing all our money!” Frankie screams, words echoing off walls, cabinets, and being swallowed down the hall behind her. She takes a heavy step towards Mary, teeth gritted and bared. Mary takes a step back into the counter corner, brows furrowed and pupils pinned. Was this even the woman she loved?
“I’m not the only one, how much do you even spend on drinks? And how do I know that, while you’re too drunk to come home, you’re not off banging some whore?” Mary spits onto the floor, creating a small circle of wet in a sea of dirt. Mary almost feels intimidated by the evil shadow Frankie casts; the sole incandescent bulb now haloing behind her.
“I’ll kill you!”
“I dare you.”
Frankie grabs a knife, waving it wildly. “Don’t think I won’t. I’ve had enough of your shit!”
“Then do it!”
Frankie knows she wouldn’t, she just wants to get her point across. Mary always thinks she was so much better than her, Frankie guesses. Because why? Because it's her parent’s death that gave them their house? Well, it's Frankie who works, Frankie who provides the money and labor to upkeep this house. Mary does nothing.
To Mary, the house is no longer a home. She cooks, cleans, and does all the things a housewife should do. Yet Frankie is never satisfied. Ever. She'll get her. “It’s not my fault the piping was so old that it flooded the basement. Fuck you Frankie! It’s not my fault you come home so late that dinner is always cold or that you’re too drunk to find it in the fridge. I do so much for-”
“Fuck you Mary!” Frankie swipes at Mary, nearly cutting a slice into her cute little nose. With the knife gripped in the hand she pressed to her cheek, she shakes her head, unwilling to believe that Mary would talk back to her like this. She had no right to talk back, not after losing a thousand dollars just today.
“No, fuck you Frankie. The house wouldn’t be so filthy if you didn’t always track mud in. You never take your boots off. And you’re snoring at night? You wonder why I always wake up after you! Don’t get me started on your friends-”
Frankie slaps her.
A long silence holds in the dead room. The light flickers to an unknown disturbance. Wind outside has branches scratching against the window. Neither can process what has happened. The air grows hotter. Mary jumps Frankie.
Frankie grips the knife, Mary’s fingers painfully clawing and prying for the knife. They dig in, white nail extensions becoming tipped in red. Frankie punches her, sending her toppling back into the counter. The impact rattles the dishes. Mary charges, sending them both tumbling to the floor.
“Give me the knife Frankie!”
“Eat shit Mary!”
“Like you do for work? You never could hold down a job. You know why? Because you’re an incompitant shit eater!” She claws at Frankie’s face, her fingers dragging with a ripping, ruining her strong check. She should have felt regret. She had her.
“Fuck off!” Frankie punches her in the gut, the soft tissue sickeningly molding to her fist. Frankie swallows stinging vomit. “I said fuck off Mary!”
Mary coughs, wondering if the wet she feels is blood. With both her hands, she snatches Frankie's knife-holding hand. Mary strains, turning the knife towards her lover. She pushes, jaw hurting and vision blurred beyond use. The knife cuts the fabric of Frankies shirt. She will kill her. “You’re just some neanderthal that bumbles their way through life. You’ve never even satisfied me.”
Frankie screams! Mary lets go.
Mary's wish comes true, Frankie's heart shatters as she drives the knife deep. Deep. Blood streams down her dress. Blood stains her insides. Tears sting Frankie's ripped cheeks.
Frankie can't process anything, it’s too much. What had she just done? She didn't want to hurt her, she just wanted to get her off. Why had Mary done that? Why would she do this!? She couldn’t. She won’t lose her. She loves her. She just wants her to stop gambling. She can't.
"Why did you make me do it?"
Mary takes Frankie’s hands, still on the knife. She pulls her close. She pulls the knife through her. The pain, it’s wonderful. Each beat of her heart feels like an exercise in extacy, each moment slipping further and further into nothing. And the look on Frankie's face, it is too much. Mary burbles a last response, happier and more free than she ever had been, "because I love you."
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