Marked

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So yet again she’s on the edge of death.

A tumor. A friggin tumor. Why would it be a tumor, for Chrissake? Why can’t it be a headache like any normal person would have? A migraine even. He could cope with her saying it was a migraine. People get migraines all the time. They don’t immediately assume their brains are about to disintegrate.

It was the same when she had those stomach pains last month. Appendicitis, she said. Or maybe even bowel cancer. He told her what it was. It didn’t take no medical expert to work it out. The bananas. Too many friggin bananas. She should be a monkey, the number of those things she eats. A big hairy ape.

He chuckles to himself. I’m married to a gorilla in a dress, he thinks. King Kong in frilly underwear. I better not take her to the Empire State Building anytime soon. Might give her ideas.

Harold Bloor hefts the two large garbage sacks out into the hallway, then closes the door softly behind him. He knows she’ll only complain if he makes the slightest noise. ‘You slammed it,’ she’ll say. ‘My head is pounding like a drum, and you went and slammed the door, you unfeeling bastard.’

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