It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Unprompted. She was just getting sick of hearing him cribbing. She lifted the great glass vase over her head, and with force, smashed it over his.
The vase didn’t even crack until it hit the floor. As it hit his head, it made a reverberating thunk. When she let go, the vase tipped over the side of Deepak’s newly bloodied head, and as if in slow-motion, shattered over the kitchen floor. Shards of glass skidded across the floor. Water and crushed roses lay in between, bleeding wounds of green and red.
Deepak’s body fell next. Limp and doll-like, his rubbery face touched the ground first. As he lay amongst the glass and flowers, he rested as if in some soggy, open coffin. Here lies Deepak, who by his wife’s hands and impulsive anger, was murdered.
He hadn’t done anything truly bad enough that pushed her to murder. It was just her first thought. Like a fleeting drizzle on a car windscreen, it should have passed soon enough. But Priya reckoned this was an even, measured response. An eye for an eye, and an insult for an insult. He had to stand over her, his leering presence, and look down at her handiwork. His nose stuck into her space, his body positioned as a threat. He mocked her. He mocked the flowers she had bought. He mocked the way she had trimmed them to fit into the vase. He mocked the delicate way she cared for each rose. She wanted to shut him up.
Deepak lay in silence. Where were his words now? Before, he had so many things to say, so many ways to hurt her. Now he was quiet? If Priya had known that this would shut his fucking mouth earlier, she would have done it sooner.