The wife, the mistress and the baby.

I grimaced at the ugly, disgusting and dirty little brat that lay in my arms and sucked at my breasts. It was just an hour old and I was seconds away from throwing it across the room.

Why?

It was a physical representation of my pain, of the void that lay in my heart and the empty flat I would be returning to.

I looked down at the unfortunate twat and had the urge to hurt it. I wanted to run my finger nails across its face severally until it became a bleeding mess and unrecognizable. Much like my life. I wanted to bend its palm backwards until it’s wrist snapped and broke. I wanted to hurt it as bad as it had hurt me. I smiled at the mental image that it created in my head, it was satisfying.

But more than I wanted to kill this baby, I wanted to kill his father. I wondered if he was with his mistress right now. His wife just pushed out his baby and not a single second could be spared for her.

My eyes blurred and my already heavy heart became heavier as I remembered how I had come home from the hospital with my pregnancy result, excited to show my husband that we were finally pregnant. Only to walk in to our flat to hear him fucking someone else. I remembered how I had followed the sound of the intense coitus to the bedroom and the first image I saw was of the bitch bent over while my husband pulled her hair and plowed her from behind.

Shock froze me to the spot and I watched her ask him if her pussy was better than mine. I stood frozen to the spot as I watched her tell him how his dick was reaching places in her that her husband’s dick couldn't. I watched as she told him how she wanted to carry his baby. I stood in the unlit corridor and watched as my husband groaned and came inside her. I can never forget the sight of how his buttocks clenched, and how he threw his head back.

I watched as they both lay on the bed and began to build castles in the skies together. They planned how they would leave their spouses, and run away, and have a baby.

I remember finally deciding that I had heard enough and walked into the room, the sting in my legs giving me a sense of time in how long I had stood there. My brain registered the shock on their faces and somehow gained a bit of satisfaction there.

I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, inhaling the foul, hospital air that reeked with medicine, blood and urine. He was probably somewhere chilling with his mistress while I was stuck here with a child and a disfigured body.

Is it bad that I wanted to kill him? Was it wrong if I decided that the best revenge…the best punishment for him would be death?

I closed my eyes again, and replayed that awful scenerio in my head. Rewriting the reality of what happened. What if instead of just standing there and doing nothing like a weak fool, what if I had done something?

I imagined that I was strong, that I was powerful, and that I had walked into that room when they were in the throes of passion, and rained my anger down on them. I imagined that I had gone back for a kitchen knife and killed them both.

I would walk over to the bitch and slit her throat, watching in delight as blood flooded the bedsheets, just as it had done on our wedding night. I would enjoy watching as she clutched her throat, trying to stop the bleeding but would fail. I would watch as she took her last breath in the bed of a married man.

Then I would move to my lovely husband, he would be begging for my mercy, his fear clear in his eyes. I would ignore his pleas. I imagined laughing at him, feeling so powerful to have his life in my hands. I would then proceed to stab his legs, and move up until I get to his dick. I would have so much fun chopping it off bit by bit, beginning from the head. I would chop it like a cucumber until I got to his balls, I would massage them and then chop it off in one sweep. And then when I feel like I have tortured him enough, I would finish him off by stabbing his heart.

I leaned back in my bed and smiled at my psychotic thoughts. I opened my eyes and looked down at the child that was now sleeping peacefully.

How dare the little brat sleep?

I grabbed a foot and squeezed, making sure to dig my fingers deeply into the skin, gaining some sort of sick satisfaction from watching his face squeeze and began to scream and cry in pain. I smiled at the child as it continued to wail.

My exercise was interrupted by a knock on the door. I looked up and there he stood…my husband. With his mistress, his cousin…