Easy on My Grave
With twelve years of a silent tongue, Rosemary raises the bottle above her husband’s head. Tears of vodka dribble from the bottle and over the front of Rosemary. Tiny drops swim down the inside of her pale, thin arms and the sensation causes Rosemary to catch her breath. She thinks of it as a bath, a rebirth, a sign of freedom.
Without a second thought, Rosemary brings the bottle down and manages a small laugh as the glass shatters against his skull, breaking flesh and bone and bringing a satisfying end to another restless night.
– David-Matthew Barnes
This story was first published in the first edition of Redbridge Review