He slams the door, retaliation echoing his displeasure around the room and her ears.
Whimpering is not enough for him; his meal was meant to be ready twelve minutes ago, on the table, hot, served and deserved, not left in the oven while she wet-nursed the baby. Where were her priorities? Not on him, that was for sure. Didn’t she have the brains to know who put the food she regularly wasted on the table? Didn’t she know who paid for the electricity she wasted, digit by digit, squandered on heating and tea?
Who was it that earned every penny, only to see it wasted again and again on disposable nappies? Was it her? Did she earn the money? Earn her way?
She sponged off him, wasted his money and denied him rights that his own parents would have thought obscene.
Her thoughts were innumerable, her charms less so and her guilt boundless. She was lucky he even gave her an allowance, not that she spent it on herself – which was good. Any spoiling of herself was to be crushed immediately, whether it be fashion or friends – her place was with him and him alone as his wife, to honour and obey. Nothing more of less.
Her face appears, worried, lines frowning in concern as she realises the time and knows that there is nothing she can say, nothing she can do to calm him down.
There is no need for alcohol to fuel his anger; hate does it perfectly for him.
I really cannot STAND this type of person…