Hatred consumes me. Hatred of myself, for what I have done. I snatched up my clothes that had been discarded about the room, my fingers darting into pockets. Item found, slipping the golden, simple ring that means so much to me back upon its finger. I try to silently dress in near darkness of early dawn, trying not to wake the woman I woke up next to.
As I sit to slip on my shoes, I feel a hand caress my back, just between the shoulder blades. A shiver of mixed pleasure and fear runs through my form, and I quickly turn. Her eyes are still shut. Good. I stand as fast as I could without alerting her to my disappearance, locking the knob of the door as I shut it behind me.
Half an hour later, I am slipping quietly into bed beside another woman. I hope the smell of cheap liquor no longer lingered on my breath. Hoping and praying that she will wake right as rain, so that her day wouldn’t start on the wrong foot. I fall asleep once more, thankful that at least I didn’t have to work.
A piercing scream drags me from the depths of slumber, and I look to my wife, who stood over me. She is crying, screaming, the looks of horror all over her face. “What is wrong, dear?” I ask, and she pointed at my chest.
There, in the center, was a large splatter stain of blood. My own eyes tear up as the bloody knife I held slashed at her. When I woke, before I left the other woman’s, that knife appeared in my pocket. And now I know whose hand it was that touched my back. It was not the woman, for she was already dead. It was her ghost. And soon, my wife will be a ghost.
The morning after, death with death.