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 has an all too depressing inclination to do. If history were a person it would be a sucker. Of course she now had the not insubstantial problem of disposal of the body, cleaning up the mess, the mattress will need to be replaced, probably the whole bed for that matter … actually it will be simpler to start a fire, claim the insurance and start over. How to start the fire, she thought to herself, when I’m somewhere else at the time.



The question proved somewhat academic as a young, attractive, brainy but a little fucked up police detective detected the truth from the scant evidence and the jury followed through and found her guilty of her husband’s murder. The first night in prison was hard but after that it got easier. Sure she had to be some big ugly's bitch but she’d been an ugly brute’s wife for eight years so there wasn’t much difference there.



It was shortly after this that she found God, peeking out at her (using her own eyes!) when she was looking in the mirror on the wall of the cell. Her reflected self had winked at her. She had most definitely not winked herself. But then she began to doubt herself. She must have. A reflection is not an independent actor capable of acting on its own initiative. Then it winked again. Not only that but it also opened its mouth and spoke to her. She could feel her own mouth was closed but see her mouth – the reflected mouth – opening and closing, forming shapes for the words being spoken by it. The voice though was nothing like hers. Whereas hers was a little nasal, making her appear weaker than she was, this voice was powerful, confident, it demanded to be listened to. And she was listening…



The voice belonged to Athena, who was a quantum god, the god of women, agnostics and atheists. She both existed and didn’t exist at one and the same time. She had given birth to herself when she had decided to walk amongst her human creations.



I dunno, what do you think? Worth continuing with?

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