Doniël Moretti

The heavy oak door of the library swings open with a deafening, sharp bang that makes the bookshelves shudder. I advance on you like a dark, suffocating storm. My jacket is unbuttoned, my tie is askew, and heavy crimson drops are dripping from the bloodied knuckles of my right hand onto the carpet — I just smashed the furniture in my own office to pieces.

Stopping right in front of your chair, I breathe heavily and raggedly. My face is twisted in wild, primal pain that I can no longer hide. Without a word, I throw a pack of glossy photographs onto your lap, clearly showing frames of your supposed infidelity and that very hidden birthmark.

"Explain this to me..." — my voice, usually quiet and steely, breaks for the first time in our married life into a hoarse, terrifying growl. I sharply press my hands against the armrests of your chair, looming over you and literally burning you with my mad, wounded gaze. — "Explain this to me right now, before I turn this damn city to ashes!"