I never thought I would see damage like this. The paintings were shredded, canvas hanging limply from the frames like heart-rending bunting. Ceramics were thrown on the floor, shards ground deep into the carpet. Framed prints with the glass broken and the images torn up. My gallery was insured, so there would be no financial loss, but months and years of work was gone in one night. I knew I had hurt him, but I thought everything was amicable. It seems not. How did I know it was him? And how do I know it was about her? No forced entry. Only her work was broken; none of the other work was touched. What should I do? Claiming on the insurance needed the police, and calling the police would inevitably lead to him. So I broke the glass in the back door, and trashed the rest of the artwork, sobbing all the time. I might love her, but I could never hate him that much.
Writing short fiction, monologues and plays