He was angry; that much was obvious. From the reddened visage to the white
knuckles, he was the picture of intimidation. The gaze in his brown eyes alluded to more, though.
He was also drunk.
Which meant that, even as his fist connected with a cheek, even as his heel found a stomach, and even as dark red blood stained
the pale cream carpet in tiny puddles, he had no idea what he was doing to his own wife.
She continued to watch until
the angry man tossed his wife against the wall, and then she stepped in. Within seconds, both figures were flat on the floor.
She poured the half-empty bottle of bourbon down the bathroom sink and threw the glass bottle into the wastebasket. Her eyes
lingered on it for a moment, and she shook her head sadly.
Pity that so much of it happens when they're drunk...
knelt down next to the female figure of the wife and felt for a pulse. She was not surprised to find the wrist limp. The blow
to the head had been far too serious for the woman to have survived the attack. She closed her eyes and placed her hands on
the wound to the woman's side. She could feel the fibers of the woman's being weaving back into place, feel the cells multiplying
beneath her fingertips--even feel the blood sliding back into the veins--until it appeared that nothing had ever happened.
She did the same with the woman's head, pleased to find the bone stretching back into place beneath her hands. When she was
finished, she reached to the wrist and smiled when she felt a pulse.
A scream of revival.
Eyes wide with confusion.
Flashes of light.
She surveyed the scene once more with a rueful smile before exiting the room.
work was done.