"What happened during quarantine?" he asked her to say whatever came to her mind.
"But...I've nothing in my mind: it's white as your eyes!" she said. She just wanted a hug, a warm hug, something to make her feel prettier, but he would just stare blankly at her nose, as if it were a giant black mole or pimple about to explode.
After a cold silence, she thought why would someone utter that question; after months of nothingness, of hollowness, of coldness.
After some long months being on her own, though with someone who would jump from one side to another, searching for things he did not wish, he did have but did not need. He didn't feel the need of having those things. He felt empty though complete. He felt as if nothing were filling his inner needs. He felt basic, yet whole, complete.
So, she starts talking, her monologue being as follows:
"I've learned about the deep, full colour of black. I've understood what black feels like: he doesn't feel red, he doesn't feel different from any other colour, for he is all colours at the same time as being one and only one true self. I am black, while you are blue, green, red and white. You, being all those colours, will never understand the true meaning of black.
Someone who's black-minded..." she said, pausing a bit, forgetting how to speak, drowning in her blackness, drawing circles inside her mind as if they were weak steps that only forgot themselves after making another step, after falling within their own stepless souls. As if those steps were different beings, different meanings, different feelings.
"Someone who's black-minded, meaning to be immersed in ones own feelings, thoughts and emotions", she continued, as if trying to make a point from nonsensical words. As if he were a caring, loving husband who would never stare at another woman's mind.
"As emotions who are hollow, but that need to be understood. I also understood, the true meaning of having ones own arms, ones own legs and thoughts and feelings of ones own. This is most important!" She highlights most as if she were trying to take out the juice of the letter M, as if it were a sorrowful orange begging for her life.
He interrupts her. Looking at her giant nose which now was really black and cold and old and folded on itself, like a coward baby who wouldn't wish to speak anymore after feeling helpless. She stops, bewildered, understanding nothing but that his fucked up mind was just willing to annoy her once more.
Without much thought, she starts walking towards a knife that's just on the table, lying as if dead and crying for help. She grabs it. He notices her coldness but doesn't feel anything different from her thoughts. She's just fucking weird, that's what I love from her: she gets pissed and stops talking as if a baby parrot begging for food he thinks while, without much thought, she moves towards him with the knife on her left hand. She's left-handed, her father was like that and she wanted to be him. Men are always more free to do stuff, they're always free and capable of doing anything they wish. Whatever comes to their fucking silly mind, they go about life reaching whatever their lower head dicktates...she thinks.
Busily, with a busy mind but firm and strong hand, she throws the knife at her husband, with a precise, sharp cut. He turns, confused, annoyed, irked. His neck starts bleeding. She runs. He's tall and long-legged, with two easy jumps he grabs her hair. With a quick movement, he moves his hand towards her neck. She can't reach him, he's stronger even when bleeding. He takes out the knife from his neck and stabs her. He falls. She falls. Their blood mixes. She takes the knife out of her neck and stabs him once more in the small silly nose of his.
They melt in a pool of blood. Her blood was black, darker than his when her long-gone daughter found their bodies.
