Revenge by a Thousand Cuts

My 750 word (including the title, but not this message) contribution to our genre. No dialogue, no names, no editor and I'm not even one hundred per cent sure this actually meets the definition of a story. That said, I hope you enjoy it. Feedback, as ever, greatly appreciated.

Revenge by a Thousand Cuts

My revenge started, changing numbers in her phone. Transposing a digit, just a digit, one per person. A small thing, barely noticeable, ephemeral. Turning a contact into someone she couldn't contact. These days she deletes her messages and the call log from her phone. With access to her Facebook account and LinkedIn Profile, links were unlinked, friends were unfriended. Old connections were severed. Excised out of her life, whilst her attention was turned to new relationships.

Her books fled our marital home for the sanctuary of charity shops. Each time I strolled into town, one of her favourites would accompany me. We walked together frequently in the early days of our relationship, hands welded to each other. Now something of hers would come in her place. They would stay, as I made my way back home. The empty slots on the bookshelf filled with books I resurrected from the attic. Old friends, neglected and forgotten, but now returning back into my life. Forgiving me, as good friends should, for my absence.

Once, gardening was important to her. A favourite way to pass time. As a couple we would visit gardens for inspiration, garden centres to buy plants or just spend time in our own creating a pleasant space for us. I helped her garden slowly die. Plant after plant succumbed, one by one to my tender ministrations. Sometimes daily blanching with scalding water, others drank urine, brine or bleach. Chemical warfare exacting a high death toll. Others trampled, casualties of murderous violence masquerading as accidents. The garden of love, literally deserted.

Photographs capture visual, split seconds of time, impossible to recreate. Reminders of our relationship that give succour as we age. Flammable pieces of paper; deletable digital files. Cherished memories becoming memento mori for our time together. Happy times now only recalled through imperfect recollections. Slowly, lovingly dispatched; the good times together disappearing. New ones no longer being created to replace them.

Her clothes were a playground for my revenge. A partially severed, shoe-strap as easy to walk with as it is to say. Hooks of bras bent gently outwards, no longer providing the support and security that they should. Popping apart, catching not just their wearer by surprise. Panties stretched until their elastic gives, but not so much that they tear. Hems unstitched, buttons removed or the thread cut so that they fall off, seams unpicked, holes in hose, delicates stretched or my favourite, washed with a hint of dye in the load. Enough to cause consternation and embarrassment and distress but not suspicion. Favourite outfits passed on.

Piece by piece, stripping away that which is valued until little of worth remains. Slowly, slowly turning the screw. Dismantling the things that bought pleasure and built togetherness. Day by day eliminating what is special, magical and turning the mystical mundane. Her seduction took time, her surrender took time, her betrayal took time; my revenge should be no quicker, no hastier, no less languid. It should be relished.

Fragile and so beautiful, jewellery. Clasps that barely worked when new, easily sabotaged. Watches bathed underwater until they don't remember what time is. Pieces that I don't remember buying vanish, gaining value in pawn shops. Links in necklaces teased apart with long-nosed pliers until they're guarantee to fail when next worn. Earrings, so beautiful as a pair, so frustrating when found alone. Diamonds swapped for glass and gold for brass. What was once precious, damaged and given away.

Her scents and perfumes, ointments and cremes, toiletries and bath stuffs, make-up and beauty products are contaminated and debased, diluted and adulterated into worthlessness. Time spent waiting for her to come home when she works late, invested cheapening her future beauty. Turning the scents of Paris into the smells of the local market.

Sometimes I wonder if she notices her world shrinking, declining, becoming smaller and cheaper, tawdry. Sees what she has lost, thrown away and mourns it's passing. If she does, she doesn't share that grief with me. Another secret she keeps.

It hurts to diminish the world. To appease my pain, deliberately harming someone I once loved. To see things die; love, plants, hope, our future. One day, she will either uncover my revenge or I will move on. My time, crouched in the dark supplanted with a hunger to live in the light once again. My fear of being alone conquered, my pride restored, my confidence regrown, my marriage over. My revenge by a thousand cuts complete.