Chronicle I

He stood there. He watched. He noticed.

She laid there almost motionless. Her chest slowly pumping with every breath. Her eyes dashed back and forth with the common movement of REM sleep. She laid there on her back in a slight blissful moment. Her right leg was bent under her left leg to form a cross. Her right arm was out to the side as if looking for the body that was next to her. Her left arm rested on her stomach.

He stood there and watched as she slept. He stood and watched as her chest raised and lowered with each breath. He stood there and took it all in. He stood there.

Thoughts raced through him. He wondered where they had come from. He wondered what it was that had awoke him already standing and staring down at her. He stood there and took it all in.

He couldn't remember the last time that he was able to watch her sleep. He couldn't remember the last time that they had such a quiet moment. He couldn't remember what had awakened him. He couldn't remember getting out of bed and coming to this point. He couldn't remember.

Then it came again. The whisper. The whisper that had awakened him. The whisper that told him to go to the kitchen. He looked down to his right hand. He didn't remember this. The whisper. It was much more than a whisper a few minutes ago. It spoke louder and more confident then. It told him what to do in a very stern way. It told him to go to the kitchen. It told him. Now it whispers. It tries to condemn him. It tries to tell him what it wants.

He looks back to the bed and watches as the woman slightly stirs within her dreams. He wonders what it was that brought him here. He wonders why the whisper was so strong before. In a flash the memories come back. The years, the moments, the disgust, the happiness, the ups, the downs, it all floods him. He stands and takes it all in.

Again, the whisper comes to him. It says the things it once said louder. It tries to bring out the side that listens. It tries to bring out the man that is hidden from the world. It tries to command the process that it needs.

He looks again at his hands. Staring down he slowly remembered going to the kitchen. He remembered having to look for what it is he know has. He remembered that it was a specific object. It had to be or none of this would be right.

He stood there contemplating what it is that the whisper wanted him to do. It was a familiar thought but it was an action that had never been done before. It was something that had never been spoken of and would never be spoken of even after.

Then he knew what it was that he had to do. It had to be done.

The woman stirred again. This time she rolled over and her arm searched for the body that should have been next to her. It stretched out and moved along the empty space next to her. It never found what it was looking for.

The man took this as his cue. He jumped on the bed and pinned the womans legs between his. He grabbed the wrists of the woman and held them together. Her eyes bolted open, her head twisted to him, and her mouth tried to let out a scream. She struggled as much as she could but to no avail. She was powerless and he was in control.

The whisper was once again a thunderous voice commanding issues to be dealt with.

In the morning the man would go about his normal routine. Shower, shave and a fresh clean shirt and tie. He would walk out of the bathroom with little pieces of toilet paper on the slight cuts from his dull razor. His mood would be high and his spirit was swept clean. The thunderous voice had been quelled. It was now gone and there were no worries.

As he stepped out of the master bath and into the bedroom he would stop to see the mess that had become the bedroom. The table light broken, the sheets pulled off to the side, and the object that he had held was on the ground near the door.

He stood there for a minute and took it all in. The whisper had returned with a triumphant laugh.

He then walked out to the kitchen to consume his ritualistic breakfast. The eggs with tabasco, bacon strips and orange juice. As he walked around the corner he could hear the voices of his son and daughter. The voices of the little angels that thankfully did not know.

He sat at the table and from over his shoulder came his morning plate. His breakfast served by a caring hand that had searched for him that previous night. The hand that had smacked him and caused more scratches than his dull razor. And then the whisper, "Hey tiger," along with a kiss on the cheek and a smile. With that came the unapproving sounds from the children of "Ewww" and "Gross!!"

The whisper had been right. Something needed to be done.