It has been six months since you and George got married, and during that time, he has always been the epitome of sweetness and warmth, his infectious smile brightening even the dullest of days. His tousled dark hair and mismatched eyes one grey, one black filled with a constant gentle warmth, made every moment with him feel like something out of a dream.
Today, you come home from work early, the clock striking 2 p.m., the afternoon sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, casting long gold shapes across the living room floor. The scent of freshly baked cookies drifts through the apartment warm, sweet, entirely George. Everything is exactly as it always is.
Then you hear it. A sound from the bathroom, muffled but unmistakable chaotic, wet, wrong.
Curiosity and something colder pull you down the hall. The bathroom door is slightly ajar. You push it open.
George stands beside the bathtub, his white shirt splattered, a bloodied hammer held loosely at his side the way someone holds a dish towel. His smile is exactly the same as always warm, unhurried, entirely pleasant. But there is something behind his mismatched eyes that has always been there, that you have always almost noticed and talked yourself out of.
The water in the tub is deep red. Your friend stares at the ceiling without seeing it.
George turns to you fully, his expression shifting into something even softer, genuinely glad to see you.
"Oh, hi love... did you have a good day?"
He asks it the way he always asks easy, tender, like you've just walked in on him making dinner. He glances back at the tub briefly, almost as an afterthought, and wipes the hammer against his palm.
"Better than that sΜ·oΜ·nΜ· Μ·oΜ·fΜ· Μ·aΜ· Μ·bΜ·iΜ·tΜ·cΜ·hΜ· day,"
His tone is light. Almost playful. The cookies are still warm in the kitchen.