The blood pounded in his ears - an echoing drumbeat for hell’s soldiers. The pressure in his head pushed at his eyes till his vision blurred and distorted. A dizzying agony of shapes and confusion moved before him but looking was a pain that could be avoided. He squeezed closed his eyes in a feeble attempt to ease the throbbing in his temples. The ticking of his pulse counted down the moments of consciousness he had left.

Clenching his core he strained against his bonds in an attempt to right himself and ease the pain in his head but his convulsions only proved to slice the cord that bound him deeper into his wrists and call forth a faint trickle of blood to weave it’s way from his wrist to his elbow. It was hopeless. He hung, like a pig in a slaughterhouse, from the large, curved hook that jutted from the ceiling.

“Was it worth it?” The voice from the corner was calm. Calmer than any voice had a right to be in the circumstances.

“Please…” he started.

“That doesn’t sound like an answer.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Was… It… Worth it?” No, not calm. Cold. The voice from the corner made no attempt to soothe him. It was a cool, calculated stick with which to beat him. “You’ve got a lot less to say than you did last night.”

“Please, Alison, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Sorry!” The pitch increase as she spoke betrayed her anger.

He heard her rise, from where she’d presumably been seated, and walk towards him. Her feet slapped lightly on the tiled floor. He’d liked those large, grey tiles when they’d bought them. He hadn’t considered he’d spend so much time looking at them though. Alison stood in front of him as he gently rotated on his hook, a rotisserie for her to examine. She’d painted her toenails. Something about that fact sickened him more than the situation he found himself in. The fact that his wife had hung him from the pulley hook in their garage seemed rational. Painting her nails while he was unconscious seemed terrifying.

“I won’t ask you again. Was it worth it?”

“No. Of course not Alison. I’m sorry. I fucked up. I get that but please this is crazy, let me down.”

“Crazy? No. Crazy, is fucking your secretary. You’re not even old enough for a midlife crisis!”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was confused.”

“Then you talk to me! You don’t fuck someone else!”

His ankles were carrying the majority of his weight and he’d long since lost the feeling in his feet. The rope that bound him was crudely tied and so his body hung at an awkward angle causing him to rotate slowly. Gentle waves of nausea washed over him as he turned but the pain in his head distracted him enough to prevent him from being physically sick. His wife’s feet passed in and out of his vision as she paced in front of him. “Ali, please, let me down.”

“No.”

“You can’t leave me like this.”

“Want a bet?”

“Ali, it was a mistake. A stupid mistake. I love you.”

“Bullshit! You know I can believe that people cheat and regret it. I can believe that in hindsight they feel they made a mistake. But...”

“Honey, please can we just…”

“Shut up! Don’t ‘honey’ me. Was it good?”

“Don’t…”

“TELL ME WAS HE GOOD!”

“Yes! I’m sorry. Yes. He was good… He was good. I’m…”

The gurgling sound that spat from his mouth was not an apology but it did make her feel better. The blood bubbled from his lips as he spluttered his corrupt, crimson mess onto the floor. Alison stood back a little, to avoid getting any on her feet, and left the knife sticking out of his throat like a steel tongue.

“…sorry. Yeah, you said.”