Being Purged is the Fire...

    The door to the cabin swung open and he pushed his way through to the kitchen. An angry muster surrounded the man's face. He glared around the room and his black eyes fell on his wife, who was nursing a small, unpleasantly smoky fire in the fire pit. She looked up, nervously at the man and then silently ducked her head back down. She let out a contented sigh, which appeared to anger the man, and the very quickly jumped to her feet. She brushed the ash from her dress and strode back to the kitchen where she had boiled a pot of water. Still, no one spoke.
    The woman dumped the potatoes she had been boiling on the stove into another pot and then looked up again. This time, there was an obvious gleam in her eye...signifying an inner hope. But still, she said nothing. For that moment, she watched her husband pick up the television remote and switch on the small set on the table in the corner of the room. She sighed again and went back to mashing. She put all of her effort into it...for at that moment, that was all she needed to put effort into.
    "God damn it, woman, where's my dinner?" It was like a nauseating script...read over and over on a broken record. No one would take the needle off.
    The woman sighed, but didn't look up or reply...showing no care in what her husband had to say. She listened to the television and kept mashing, creating a lovely beat as the masher hit the bottom of the pot.
    When she was sure that the potatoes were soft and mashed quite well, she went to check on the meat, shich was still cooking in the oven. She checked it and saw that it was quite brown, but she had no way of telling whether the inside was cooked well enough. She shrugged and pulled the meat out, placing it on the table, and then splattering some onto both plates. She looked up and saw that her husband had already caught the aroma and was heading over to the table at that very moment. She hurriedly rushed over to the sink and placed the dirty pots and pans into the bottom of the basin.
    "We just had this yesterday!" the man thundered, glaring over to his wife.
    Nervously, the woman tried to gather back the confidence she had lost when her husband started speaking. She looked up, again, and glared at her husband. "Well, honey," she started, taking a brief pause to bite her lip in fear. "I had nothin' else to make. I got no more money to spend."
    "I gave you twenty dollars at the beginnin' of the week for food. Where'd that go, y' skank?" the man snarled. His face was red.
    "That was LAST week, you retard!" she yelled. Then, she recieved the angry slap she expected but hardly deserved. She fell back, letting outa n angry scream, and landed on the floor. "You bastard!" she finally replied when she was able to compose herself and discovered that there was a slight rivlet of blood trickling down the bottom-half of her face. "You dirty bastard!"
    "Shut up, skank!" he screamed again. He slumped over the table and dug into his meal, letting out grunts of selfish satisfaction with every bite.
    She breathed worriedly and heavily for the next few moments knowing that her husband coul have endless energy (heaven forbid he blow it all off at work) whenever he so chose. Then, she rose once more. She sat down at the table and scooped her fork and spoon into her hands.
    Just at that moment, the man grabbed her plate of food, swung back, and then hurled it into the opposite wall. There was a loud smash and then the contents of her dinner ran down the wall.
    She wasn't about to take that. She was ready to defend her own honor. She watched her husband stand up. She was ready to let her fist throw. She was ticked off again. But, the man just stared down at her--as if she were a child--and scoffed. "You think you can take me? Don't even," he growled. Then, he shuffled back to the living room.
    She was still in battle-mode...as if she were ready to go to war. Everything was second to the lovely disasters that she had in her head for the disgusting monster of a husband that was perched in his arm chair with his beer and television. And, out of the corner of her eye she saw the answer to her problem. Hanging on the wall, right next to the faded, crooked wedding picture that was hardly held up with one rusty nail, was the protection rifle her husband had bought ten or fifteen years ago. It was his pride and joy. He didn't need a baby as long as that gun was there. He polished and cleaned it every day. Sometimes, she would hear him loading and unloading it just to hear the psychotic 'click' sound. He didn't need anything when that gun was there. It truly was his wife. His only afair. It had never even been shot once.
    She came back out of her daze just as she was halfway across the room. She had her hand reached out alread, her hand desperate to bring the gun into her presence. She looked down at her minscule feet, adorned in her little, white slippers, and then nudged one forward. Her whole body knew what she had to do, but it was trying to hold her back. She looked up, again, and saw the gun, knowing she needed it...it was if this was her only passion in life at this point. She kept her eyes on it and finally pushed towards it. Aft er a few brief seconds, she reached for the gorgeous, beautiful gun and she was at peace again. She glanced over, through the kitchen, into the living room. Her husband had stood up to look at the fire. She glanced over at the gun and snatched it up quickly. She stared down at it: much bigger than her, much more dangerous than her...she had found her soul mate. Now, to take care of the old one. She started walking, baring the gun in front of her with pride. She squinted at the man. His head was just a pinhead next to the golden fire's glow. But, the fire had hardly been going at all before.
    Her chest rose and sank with every stride closer to him she got. Her eyes stayed fixated on her target and she miraculously stayed dead silent.
    Kill him, she thought to herself, and every inch of her being chirruped in agreement. Her hands clenched around the barrel of the gun. She was just about there when she picked the gun up and stuck it right behind her husband's head. Then, she pulled the trigger...and the man fell like a rock, smashing his head on the brick mantle and then falling half-way into the fire pit, putting out the tiny flame with the side of his head.

For extinguished is the fire once sparkling in lover's eye.
By the hatred that thus
hatred dows bring.