The white picket fence. It’s so horribly cliché. Nobody would ever imagine a red picket fence. Not if they were thinking about murder and love. Ha! It’s funny, ya know. It’s funny how we concrete the world in clichés.
I can very much say that I knew of a red picket fence that was once white. Dare I say I was the culprit. Murder and love. They were obviously involved. That’s cliché, too. You would have picked that up if you were reading closely. She should have known better than to marry someone like me. Someone who already had it all. But no, she would persist. Praising me whenever she could, just to make herself feel worthwhile. I guess that was the reason why she had to die.
But what of the white picket fence, you ask? Well, it was in the way. That can be taken both literally and metaphorically. She aspired for it. Apparently her mother drilled the concept into her head. A white picket fence. I may be cruel in motive but I’m far worse in execution.
They say blood is thicker than water. But I can assure you that paint is thicker than blood. And they both dry just the same. Solidifying reality. Or, in my case, solidifying a version of my own imagination. You see, I told the neighbours she left and the only way to relieve my throbbing heart was to repaint the fence. Such a shame, though, that it was her blood.
Originally published at The Out Outdoors