Stone Matter

She set her face, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth just slightly, and twisted the chisel in her hand. He should have known better than to challenge her after what he had seen. Stupid bitch, he had called her. She banged the mallet on the end of the chisel and the nose cracked. Damn it. She would have to watch her temper.

Those fucking idiots came flashing their badges. She had been cleaning the mess and when she answered the door, she was wearing that shirt, the one with the stains on it. She sucked her tongue back into her mouth, ground her teeth together, and raised the chisel again. Maybe she would just crack the whole damn thing and start over, but she had already wasted too much time.

She dropped the chisel and walked into the kitchen where he had greeted her earlier with the pictures in his hand. He had shoved them in her face, images splattered red across the glossy surfaces. "Look at these. Look at these!" he had demanded and he threw them on the floor. "Who are these people?"

What was she supposed to say? He knew damn well who they were and what they had done to her. And here he was with his screaming and his hands wrapped around to his back as if it would protect him. He would come in her house and spit at her like that, him with his so-called morals and three fingers pointing back.

"Is this how you do it?" he had asked her. "Is this how you live?" She had shrunk back from him then and pulled at her own hair as he pounded on the refrigerator.

"Get out. Get out, get out," she said, on the floor, on her knees. He had left and she sat there for a long time, staring at the pictures scattered around her, the arms and hands and faces posed for sculpting. Then they didn't matter anymore and she had thrown them in the cold dishwater.

Back in her work room, she picked up the chisel again, but she couldn't do it. Not this time. So she sat down and looked out the window where the apple tree stood and she cried. How could she hate him? He was her guru, he had taken care of her, but then he pushed. He pushed too hard and she had to do it.

If only he hadn't come back, hadn't called the cops, but that wasn't really her fault. He made that choice himself and he had threatened to take everything away. She swore she wouldn't let him, only, in the end, he did and she knew it.

He had come back and told her it was over, that her life was over. She had to lock him in the room with those statues and on his knees, he had cried over the bits of stone bodies and asked her why. For him, she had said. Because he had made her strong, taught her how to be alive, to fight back. She had done it for him and he had been impressed when he saw them in the gallery, before he knew.

After, the cops had come and asked her about the stains on her shirt and she told them she was an artist, showed them the room with her paintings, but not the one with her sculptures and axe. She knew they would be back. She picked up the chisel and put it back down again and went instead to the garage where she picked up the sledgehammer.

She closed her eyes and stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth and she swung hard. She grazed his arm as she circled with the momentum until the sledgehammer hit the wall and she had to pull it out. Again she swung and this time she was screaming and she came down on his head, broke through until it splattered and he jerked, but not him, not him anymore, just statue, sculpture. She wanted to forever exist with him, but he had done it, he had pushed her, and now he fell shattered on the floor and she could only crawl away into the corner and weep.

Tammy R. Kitchen has previously been published in The Story Garden. She hopes to become well-published so she'll never have to do physical labor again.

Email: Tammy R. Kitchen

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