I have been observing him for months, he looks tensed. He looks like he has been plotting something, something new, something more dreadful. Something that is again going to cast upon me a feeling I can’t describe, they are only colors; black and red, terror and blood.
Yes, my husband is a terrorist.
I didn’t choose him, I was just owned by him. Just like people own houses. Hollow spaces and no power to express; only accommodate. I remained hollow accompanied by dense darkness. I didn’t love him, but the ache in my torn flesh taught me how to love a silhouette. Every time he crushes his body against mine I feel smeared with innocent blood. Will my offspring be a reflection of him? Will I give birth to another creature with an empty heart and mind only to be filled with manipulated ideals; all tangled.
I heard the television roar with headlines that read:
“Terrorist attack over 300 killed, over 500 injured”
“5 terrorists shot dead”
My heart skipped a beat. Why did I want to see my husband again? He deserted over a hundred homes, widowed women, orphaned children and rejoiced in spilling innocent blood. I slapped myself for alluring his return. Now I was happy that there were five less in causing destruction to humanity.
I wish I lived with an actual human, not just a black outline of a person holding doors to destruction. I wish he could understand the pain of losing, the pain of separation, pain of unfulfilled dreams, pain of absence, emptiness. How I wished he was a human.