I stepped into the living room but made it no further than the doorway. It looked as though a very specific tornado had torn it’s way through the room, a trail of destruction left behind.

Glass from the broken mirror above the fireplace was shattered across the floor. It crunched underfoot, like when you step on snow after a heavy fall. Huge chunks of glass and smaller dustings, like sand, showered the room. We chose that mirror as a wedding present, it survived 20 years. Now, destroyed by our specific tornado.

I look around the room. The standing lamps have fallen, the tv screen has been broken and there underneath it, the culprit; my broken plant pot and plant, strewn infront and across the carpet.

The destruction hits me now, I can’t breathe properly. I take a seat on the sofa, my head between my shaking heads.

I think back to last night. It wasn’t a special evening, but I’d promised to cook him dinner. His favourite, as a small apology for for being so busy recently. I wanted to make it up with him. But he was late. I kept waiting, over an hour, the food ruined and cold. I ate my portion, then his out of spite even though I wasn’t hungry. I tried calling again, but his phone was off. Typical.

When he finally arrived, he looked guilty at least. He said his phone was out of battery, pretty handy excuse, I thought. I think I even said that out loud but I can’t be sure, I’d gotten through most of a bottle of wine by that point too.

I remember waking up this morning, alone in bed, brain thumping inside my head. Wondering where my husband was I shuffled downstairs, stopping in the living room doorway, greeted by chaos.

I remember our conversation, escalating into anger, then fury quickly. Our buried resentments rising to the weak surface and breaking through. Did I throw that plant at the television? He always hated my plant obsession, I bet that was him.

I take my head out of my hands now, shaking slightly less. He’s still there, lying rigid on the floor where he fell. I suppose I should tidy up this mess.