To Abort

When he comes home there's something wrong with the picture he's greeted with. The main thing is that she's smoking. A cigarette, smoke drifting from its tip, resting between her lips. Her legs, bare and stubbly, are bent at the knee. She lies on the sofa, eyes unblinking.

"What happened?" It comes out loud in the silent flat. Unusual, unnatural, unwanted.

It takes a bit for her to reach up and pry the cigarette from between her lips, allowing her hand to drop back down over the side of the sofa, tip of the smoke breaking and falling onto the floor. "It's gone."

"What do you mean, 'it's gone'?" he asks and steps forwards, closer to the sofa and closer to her.

Her eyes dart towards him and she heaves out a sigh. "It's gone. Went poof. Went bye-byes."

A moment of silence goes by. He doesn't speak and she doesn't speak. She doesn't even bring the cigarette up to her lips, instead moving her arm and dropping it into the ashtray that's resting on the floor next to where she's lying. Her legs slowly lower, stretching out in front of her and their eyes connect.

"What-"

She cuts in, emotions taking control and silencing needless questions of pain. "It's dead. I went and aborted the fucking thing. You're welcome," she drawls, allowing her anguish and hatred to flow within her words.

His nostrils flare at her words and he turns on his heels, opening the door and slamming it behind him as he leaves her in the flat. In the cold, empty, and now painful flat that he would never to return to.

On the sofa she blinks, tears slipping down her cheeks. "It's dead," she whispers to herself.

"Good riddance."