The Blank Corner

It became clear to her that this madness was hers to deal with alone. Adele stopped right there. Jim had gone, the girls avoid her, and Peter couldn’t get out of the house fast enough after high school. 

It wasn’t her fault Jim took the bullet, it was his gun, his hand, his mouth…sitting in the old desk chair, the two, worn down…facing the cellar corner…cold, gray, concrete, the last thing he’d see, and maybe that’s what he needed. Blankness. Now his blood splash like a Pollock swash, not something to wash. Sponge, but Leave it where it soaked. The trace…the stain, of it. Visit it. Not a shrine, but a sentence. The chair collapsed as the big man lurched sharply to the left with parts of his brain... The rickety legs stood not a chance, collapsed with his mass. The bullet's glance, once past his skull, took a chunk of block, as well. But, the block just ricocheted.

She’d heard it in the night, half awake…unaware…but thought the furnace flues might be buckling, 2 floors under. So dull the sound. She chose slumber.

She swore to herself she wasn’t the reason. The business went down, his fragile affair admitted and over...he pleaded…forgive me...and, she, now left as his sole support...the only one he really needed. ...but...She was not capable. She couldn’t carry him…she’d counted on him…and, now?...she couldn’t take him, wouldn’t cradle him, hear his pain, or his broken vows. Heal him, or hear him explain...it really didn't matter.  She'd shriek his name in anger, echoed in an empty space, with no trace of an excuse.  It was too much and not what she signed for. 
It had only been good when things were fine, and that was just fine with her. She required the stability…the routine…the simple chores, nothing laborious!...you hire out for that….or, you once did. But, this?!…how does one handle this? The shrinks, the meds, the blank canvas, her head - incapable of picking up a brush...never a plan...could not begin to choose a color…or even with a hint of a sketch..or, where to go from now on. She stared…and stared…and stared some more...(fuck you, Jim, for choosing this dank cold place, you selfish bastard) ...but months went..when, finally inspired, she meticulously painted those walls, blood stained, minor details...'chunk' and all. 
Her canvas. His brain. Her path. His splatter. Their Madness...hers alone...still hangs overhead.