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Martha Rae washed the blood from her hands

Oh man, I stared at the page for ages then spat this out... Martha Rae washed the blood from her hands. She then dried them. After that she made herself tea and two pieces of toast. Milk went into the first and olive spread and marmalade on the second. She then sat down at the kitchen table and ate and drank. A sip of tea, a bite of toast; another sip of tea, another bite of toast … too detailed? Apologies and moving on…         Upstairs her husband, soon to be late, lay dying on their king-sized bed. He was bleeding profusely from where, until Martha had cut it off, his penis used to be. She had discovered last night that he’d been cheating on her and this seemed, to her at least, the correct punishment that fitted the crime. He won’t be cheating on her again. For that matter he won’t be doing anything again. Perhaps she had over-reacted. Nothing to be done about that now; a lesson learned for the future, should history repeat itself, which it ha...
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The sweat beaded on my brow.

 The sweat beaded on my brow. My eyes fixed on the thing in front of me in heavy concentration. One slip and it was all over. Bye bye me. Here today, gone ... today. But I don't want this to happen. I gotta go eventually, I know this. But not yet. Of course it will always (probably) be not yet and eventually a "not yet" will be ignored but let that be a future "not yet" not this one. Don't, whoever the [choice of expletive here] is in charge ignore this "not yet". Where was I?  Oh, yes, my brow sweat was beading, my eyes determinedly fixed on something, trying to avoid a slip that could end me. And if I hadn't distracted myself I'd, maybe, have avoided that slip.
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Anxiety grips me.

 Anxiety grips me.  (It prevented me from writing.)
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Through the open window

  Through the open window and the not-quite-closed curtain the light, all silvery reflecting its’ journey here via the moon’s grey reflective surface the light made it’s way into the bedroom of a woman lying asleep in her bed, gently snoring, so gentle in fact that it doesn’t really qualify for the snoring category but is a bit more than heavy breathing. It doesn’t really belong to either category, or perhaps is a member of both. But anyway the silvery moonlight was not aware of this categorising difficulty and wouldn’t have been interested in any case as it lit upon the woman in her bed. Her facial features are pleasant, if a little blank. Blank as if … the woman isn’t real somehow. She looks perfectly real but you just get the sense that she looks “too real”. There’s no personality shaping the features, if you get my drift, which possibly you don’t, and that’s quite all right as — but that’s of no consequence. Her belly beneath the covers is large: either the belly of a fat woman...
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