The Black Dress

He didn't need a reason to do what he did.

Dr. William Rowley, who worked thirty years as a vascular surgeon and now works at the Institute for Alternative Futures, left the house, driving away in his shiny red Prius.

She remained on the floor, just as he had left her. Minutes seemed to pass, minutes not spent crying, not feeling sorrow, but rather devoid of any emotional bias. Her hand latched onto the countertop and she pulled herself up to her feet. Her knees wobbled for a moment, but soon she managed to gracefully walk into the bathroom. She tossed her torn, black dress onto the tile. It was an elegant dress, unworthy of such indifferent treatment.

The shower head spat out three quick bursts of water before handling a steady stream. A quick glance into the mirror turned into an intense stare. Her glistening eyes caught her attention and held tightly to it. They wanted to tell her something, to reveal a great truth that would free her from the slow digestion of her soul by this world. But there was nothing to protect her. The barrage of acidic juices would continuously splash onto her spirit and she would gradually erode away. And so her eyes relinquished their grasp. She stepped into the shower, washing away the venomous filth to give life a fresh target for its virulent rape.