The Writers' Circle

Breaking Point
                                           


                                              

His hobby wasn't that unusual. Men have had a craving for arousing photographs and literature ever since time in memorial.  In George's case, his need had become more of an addiction and he would search the back street emporiums for hours on end looking for his favourite videos and magazines.  It provided relief from a loveless marriage and his feelings of worthlessness and had become an all-consuming compulsion. 
        He couldn't wait to get home that night to look at his new collection of magazines and videos he had bought to replenish his collection that his wife Mary had destroyed.  Letting himself into the empty house, he felt relieved. At least she wouldn't be nagging him any more.  As he put the take away into the microwave he had picked up from the Red Dragon Chinese restaurant his mind wandered back to two days previous.
	 'All I ask you to do, George, is put your slippers on as soon as you get in the door. Just look at those dirty footprints on the carpet.' She had glared at him. 'Are you thick or just plain stupid?' 
          George had seen that look on Mary's face before and knew that she was fighting an overwhelming desire to slap his face. He was frightened of Mary he always had been. Unsure what to do he'd taken his shoes off where he stood. 
          She had shrieked at him gritting her teeth in frustration.  You, stupid, little man! Just look at the dirt you're dropping on the carpet.'
           George had done what he always did; he chewed one side of his lip nervously and in a polite sycophantic voice had said. 'I'm sorry, Mary.' 
           Watching as his wife had plodded into the kitchen in tatty carpet slippers and curlers carping on to her self about him, he had often wondered what exactly it was that had attracted him to her in the first place. She'd become a control freak. 
          The final straw had been when she had found his secret stash of videos and magazines hidden in his garden shed and had burned his precious collection in the incinerator. 
       'You disgust me, George Spencer. No self-respecting man buys such rubbish. You're pathetic. You should be ashamed of yourself.'
        He didn't remember hitting her. Only the silence when her screeching died as she dropped to the floor with the unresisting weight of a bag of flour.  At first, he felt panic, then astonishment looking at the bloodied hammer in his hand wondering how he could have done such a thing.  

             The ringing of the microwave timer brought him back from his daydreaming as he stared out of the kitchen window into the back garden.  His new potatoes were just starting to sprout. He had furrowed the ground well but could still see a slight mound of uneven earth where he had buried her.   
             'Umm.'  Come the winter, I'd better dig the ground over again. 
            Rushing up the stairs to his bedroom, he undressed quickly. The feeling of excitement slowly building as he rummaged through the bottom of his wardrobe for his accoutrements. Savouring every moment, he handled each garment with a delicate reverence as he dressed. Looking in the mirror he turned this way and then the other way checking that each item of clothing was on right.  
       Returning to the kitchen, he took his Chinese meal out of the microwave and went into the lounge.  He placed the first of five new videos he had bought into the VCR. He watched the television excitedly.  His breathing getting heavier with anticipation as the screen opened. 
                He had a quick animal look in his eyes; his voice high pitched with excitement. 'Yes. Yes.' Dressed in his cowboy outfit, a broad rimmed Stetson hat tilted at an angle on his head, George Spencer settled back into the settee to watch his favourite western High Noon for the hundredth time. 

                                             THE END

Ext 654