• About ten paces down the hall from Cynthia George’s bedroom was a burst of color, like a sip of Chardonnay to a recovering alcoholic. Among the dank grays and browns, the yellow door was like a rush of sunshine through a barricade of clouds. If one were oblivious enough to open that bright door without the obvious taste of lingering death seeping into their pores, you would find a room so filled to the brim with joy that you would think it would overflow and leak into the rest of the house … it didn’t. A small bed was nestled into the corner of the room, a moth eaten quilt folded at the foot of the mattress. A mobile that hadn’t been moved for years rested on the ceiling above the bed, its string thin and threatening breakage. Planes and cars and trains adorned the small rotator; once a year, when Cynthia lay on the bed, escape was something she liked to think about. Across the room from the bed was a bookshelf; Babar, Good Night Moon, Alice In Wonderland, smothered with cobwebs and stained with dust. Bright blue paint colored the walls, chipped and scratched. An open window that looked out into the front yard filled the room with ill-placed light; what good is light without love? After such a house, this door was a gift to the eyes. It would’ve made a man on death row happy.
    Nothing about that door made Cynthia George happy.

    The morning of November 2nd, Cynthia George woke up an hour after dawn. She put on her robe, opened her window, and inhaled the sweet German air. She made her way through her small cottage, into her kitchen, and poured herself a glass of milk. A purebred Rottweiler with half a missing ear waddled over to her feet, panting with the effort. She scratched her dog behind his good ear.
    “Fine day for killing someone, a’int it, Maxxie?” said Cynthia, looking around hastily. Maxxie barked twice, his short tail wagging. She sipped her milk, trying to rid herself the feeling of dirt coating her tongue. “That’s a good boy. You’re going to help mommy tonight, aren’t you?”
    Cynthia set down her glass of milk on the wood table, worn from years of use; two of the legs were uneven, and the third was teetering on the verge of useless. She slipped on farming gloves that smelled of manure, smoothed back her graying hair, and opened the front door.

    The steady pitter-patter of milk falling into the rusted metal did anything but comfort Cynthia; the soft bleating of the goat with every tug reminded her too much of a child’s helpless cry. It was 10:22. Maxxie stood beside her stool, slowly circling himself, baring his teeth, foolishly chasing his own stubby tail. His harmless growls and the goat’s bleats echoed throughout the shabby barn. As Cynthia tried to distract herself with the rhythmic beat of milk falling into the bucket, the sounds got louder and louder, building up to an absurd crescendo, filling her head with thoughts and sights and memories, until –
    “YOU STUPID DOG! YOU STUPID, USELESS, MUTT!”
    Overturning the scarcely filled bucket of milk, Cynthia kicked Maxxie in the side of his stomach. Whimpering, he quietly cowered against the ground as Cynthia stared down at him, the maniacal glint in her eye melting into a blank gaze. The goat’s bleats were louder than before, the lash of violence frightening her. She tried to escape, but her bound legs didn’t let her go very far.
    “Elend ist ich,” Cynthia muttered, her frail hands pulling weakly at her hair. Maxxie tentatively walked towards Cynthia, the familiar German words soothing him. Cynthia bent down, stroking Maxxie’s soft fur. “Tonight, it’ll all be better. Tonight, tonight, tonight, tonight…” Rocking back and forth, curling up in the fetal position, a smile crept upon Cynthia’s face. Tonight, tonight, indeed.

    At 1:17, the phone rang. Cynthia froze, her eyes darting across the room. The second shrill cry of the phone shook her out of her nervous daze. She walked swiftly down the hall and into the kitchen, Maxxie ambling behind her. She reached the phone by the sixth ring, and reluctantly picked it up.
    “Yes?” Cynthia breathed, suddenly getting very light headed. She re-gripped the phone in her sweaty hand.
    “Oh, I’m glad I caught you!” Cynthia sighed with relief at her sister’s voice.
    “Oh, Cassie,” she muttered, but her sister had continued talking.
    “I’m just on my way back from Bren’s soccer game, Isabel’s with me, too -- oh hold on …” Cynthia’s stomach leaped. She was with the children. After a short, crackly silence, Cassie’s voice came back on. “Say hi to Auntie Cynthia, kids!”
    “Hi, Auntie Cynthia!” Chorused the children; voice, sweet like honey, came from farther away, while a boy’s, older this time, shouted louder, eager to make noise. Isabel and Bren. Cynthia’s heart turned into a hummingbird, flapping its wings like its life depended on it.
    “Anyway, Cynth, you’re definitely coming for supper tonight, right?” Cassie asked.
    “Will she bring candy again, Mama?” Cynthia heard Isabel ask in the background.
    “Yes, Cass. Yes, I am!” said Cynthia. A rare smile played upon her face, it’s unfamiliar structure distorting her features. Maxxie wagged his tail, his mouth hanging open, little flecks of drool flinging to the floor. For the first time in six years, happiness began to rise from the bottom of Cynthia’s heart, slowly but surely, giving everything a tender and golden feel, for that night, the hole in her heart would be filled.
    At 5:01, Cynthia pulled her casserole out of the rusted oven. It was slightly burnt along the edges, the dingy yellow fading into a charred black. She pulled the tin foil slowly across the surface, trapping its heat inside. She put on her best blouse, and fetched her coat from her closet. She slipped on her boots. She walked towards the kitchen. She opened the microwave. She pealed away her dead daughter’s blanket. She pulled out her dead husband’s gun. She sank to the floor, breathing hard. She picked herself up. She took her casserole, slipped her gun in her coat, and opened the front door. Cynthia George had never been more ready in her life.
    It was hard for Cynthia to contain herself. An hour and seventeen minutes of dinner, and she couldn’t put together a coherent sentence – unless it was to the children. Her heart started fluttering every time Isabel or Bren spoke … hunger and longing burned in her throat long after the food had gone. Every little thing set her cheeks on fire and caused her eyes to shine – Isabel’s laugh, crying out like wind chimes every time someone said something funny; the fast, urgent way Bren piled food onto his plate… every single movement either of them made, every word they said, sent unchangeable, desperate, irrevocable love surging through Cynthia’s body, making her fingertips tingle and her lips form a smile.
    And then the time came where Isabel’s eyes could barely stay open, and Bren’s words were interrupted by constant yawns. Isabel climbed into her mother’s arms while Bren slipped his hand into Cynthia’s. Together, Cassie and Cynthia took the children to their rooms, nothing accompanying them but silence and love. Love, love, love…
    “Sleeping over, are you?” said Cassie in a hushed voice, closing Isabel’s door quietly. Bren liked to sleep with his door open.
    “Yes, if that’s alright,” Cynthia replied as they made their way to the living room and onto the couch. Both had a glass of deep red wine clutched in their hands, Cassie’s almost empty, Cynthia’s untouched.
    “Of course,” Cassie said, and continued to sip her wine. They sat without speaking, until Cassie finished off her glass. She kissed Cynthia on the cheek. She put away her glass. She checked on her children. She went into her bedroom. She undressed. Cassie went to bed.
    Cynthia’s steps were slow and dragging as she made her way towards the coat closet. No emotion showed on her face, her features frozen in a blank gaze. Her mind was void of thoughts. When she reached the closet, she mechanically pulled open the door, not even attempting to quiet the creak of the door. She reached her hand into her coat that was hanging next to her sister’s. Her hand found the gun, and she pulled it out clumsily, her sweaty hands gripping it hard. And then she smiled. This was the moment she had been waiting for; she would have children at last, and her life would be that of unconditional love.