The Blood

He said it was a bit of raspberry jam clinging to his white shirt when he came home that night. Nothing had seemed out of place at the time, and she dismissed it with only the curiosity of why it didn’t come out after the customary trip through the washing machine. She had gotten him that shirt as a birthday present, and he had used to wear it all the time. Now, however, he seldom did wear it, and blamed the little speck of red that blemished the whole thing.

They weren’t wealthy, and they had financial issues just like anyone, perhaps more so. He was definitely a hard worker, as was she, but sometimes hard was wasn’t enough. Her wealthy father often criticized his only daughter for marrying a man who couldn’t support both of them, but she had always said that their love was enough, and so far this had been the case. Her father had been long divorced and knew nothing of love. That which he did know was long tainted by the years of fighting that had quickly parted him from his wife. He spent his days, as a retiree, living alone in his mansion, barely leaving and barely having company. Apparently his wealth was more to him than was love.

Suddenly, and without warning, he had decided that his life was no longer worth living. The neighbor’s dog had relentlessly kept barking at the house where his dead body lay for nearly a week before the unanswered knocks on the door brought the police car, and then the ambulance, and then the detectives. Apparently, the detectives though that people who are going to slit their wrists don’t hit themselves over the head with a golf club first.

Well, their financial problems certainly seemed to be over. Her husband made the untimely comment that her father would be happy knowing that she now lived in a family with money, seeing as she was the only recipient in her father’s will. Now, she knew that it wasn’t strawberry jam, but she never said anything. She still loved him, but she trusted the blood, not her lover.