I didn’t mean to kill anyone.
I am sure that is what everyone says but honestly, I mean it, it was an accident.
It was so hot, heavy in my hand, who knew it had the ability to take a life so quickly, so cruelly.
The evening had been normal, nothing spectacular, the heat of the late summer had made my clothes uncomfortable and sweat pooled at the nape of my neck as I tried to iron creases in trousers and pleats in skirts. He who helped create them sat idly beside me, disgruntled by the heat but engrossed in the moving figures on the screen in front.
Upstairs the children slept, unaware that their mother was about to commit murder.
“You nearly done love?” he questioned from the sanctuary of the armchair, “that iron isn’t half noisy.” As he spoke he increased the volume on the tube watching avidly as one man kicked a round leather ball to his team mate and swearing when some young lad in red kicked it away.
The heat mixed with the hatred of ironing incensed my inner bitch, inside I bubbled with anger, bloody too loud iron my subconscious screamed it’s your bloody shirts said the voice in my head loudly to the figure on the sofa.
“Leave it love,” he said “do it tomorrow.”
For fecks sake the voice inside my head yelled Tomorrow? Tomorrow? How about you do it fecking tomorrow?
Then it happened.
But God, I swear, I didn’t mean it.
Will you forgive me?
Can I forgive myself?
I laid the shirt out on the board, seething at the creases; I arranged the collar cursing its existence. Then my frustration overwhelmed me…
“Can’t you do one bloody shirt?” I cried as I lifted the iron up and then I brought it down in a fury.
Blood sprayed over the collar, the shirt will never be wearable again, an eyeball popped with the heat. My mouth formed a surprised O as I realised what I had done…
I am a murderer.
That Daddy Long Legs never stood a chance.
Ironing – should could with a health warning….