What happens when a True Crime junkie marries a gym rat?

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I was inspired to write this story based on a recent assignment. My professor encouraged us to create a flash fiction piece that represented the concept of symbolism and connected it to a character’s identity. It hit me… True Crime pod casts and docuseries has created a whole subculture. What would happen if someone that lived in the gym was married to a true crime junkie?

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The day started with Kelly making herself an egg-and-bacon croissant sandwich and Mike walking downstairs in his athletic wear. His wrinkled nose drifted toward the fridge in search of a protein shake. Their eyes never met as they passed each other like two distant ferries traveling in opposite directions.

Kelly’s earbuds vibrated. Another true-crime podcast buzzed in her ears, dissecting a brutal murder conspiracy.

“It seems there are always the same warning signs that your partner is cheating,” one podcaster trilled.

“Yeah, but cheating is one thing. We’re talking about murder! How did they get all that blood out? They had to be scrubbing for days.”

“I just can’t understand why they didn’t just ask for a divorce.” Kelly shook her head. She closed her eyes as she suddenly felt as though someone was watching her.

“So, that’s the answer then?”

Mike’s voice cut through her thoughts. Her true-crime world shattered, no longer able to provide an escape.

“I hate when you listen to those. Hell, I hate it even more when you watch that crap,” Mike grumbled.

“He wasn’t supposed to try… or… or what? Fight for his marriage?” Mike scoffed, turning his burning gaze toward her sandwich as if he intended to set it on fire.

“I’m sorry, are you saying he should have killed his wife in an adrenaline-induced rage because he was incapable of expressing his feelings like an adult?” Kelly’s words came out hot and sharp.

“She probably refused to do anything he enjoyed. Instead, she sat around after work watching murder mysteries and wondering why her partner resorted to violence.

“Here’s a hint. It’s the only thing that can capture her attention!”

Mike’s voice rose as the pressure of the glass pushed back against his fingers.

The ache in his hand throbbed up his forearm, and the cold glass seemed to creak in protest.

“Maybe if the husband was as diligent with her needs as he was with his own…” Kelly paused.

Mike’s neck snapped toward her, scowling.

“…or spent less time with a certain redhead in those tight leggings and her BBL.”

The glass had reached its limit.

A low rumble started in Mike’s chest and grew louder as it escaped.

“Mike!”

Kelly rushed forward, towel in hand, and guided him to the sink. His crimson-stained hand still trembled.

Cool water mixed with blood and glass in the basin. Their jagged reflections stared back from the shards she carefully pulled from his wounds. They both winced each time another piece dropped into the sink.

A small river of blood formed in the basin, and Mike watched Kelly’s hands blend into an effortless blur. The icy water mingled with a special antiseptic solution she kept for emergencies. The crimson swirled around the drain until the water ran clear. The only evidence left behind was the shattered glass. She took a warm paper towel and expertly wiped away the remaining fragments, leaving the sink looking as though nothing had happened at all.

She bandaged Mike’s hand as he stared down at her. The bandage trembled in her delicate fingers, and her body began to shake.

Mike wrapped her in a large, warm embrace, his chest serving as a makeshift pillow. They collapsed onto the floor together while the podcast signed off through the earbud lying nearby.