A lone candle sits at the table to chase away the darkness of the night and the fear in her beating heart, as the flame plays to the breeze in the room and casts shadows on the walls long misshapen things that used to occupy her nightmares as a child, but now her shadows are real and alive no longer confined to night and candlelight. The ticking clock sounds louder and louder with every passing second, will he come home tonight she wonders, an image of his dead body in a ditch raises hope and relief she quickly quells down, should she be so lucky where would she get the money from. A distant car hoots and the dogs start barking she traces a nervous finger along the scar that runs from her wrist to the middle of her forearm, a suicide attempt was what people knew and she never dared speak contrary to his truth. She balls her hands into a tight fist and rocks slightly back and forth, who would be home first the son or the father, the evidence of her failing as a parent or as a wife. Her father was right she had proven to be good for nothing , she couldn’t make her husband happy nor her son sober and now not even her beauty could save her. It was month end today once he was done with his lover he would come back and leverage his fists and insults on her, it was month end today and she didn’t know how many people her son had stabbed or mugged in pursuit of the next high. The dogs barked again, there was shouting and a dog howled in pain. A fist on the door shouting at the useless wife to open the door, she stood up slowly knife in hand and towards the voice of terror she went. A lone candle sat on the table hissing from the extinguished flame, no shadows on the wall and the dance of the breeze stilled, she stood by the door blade in hand. The lone candle grew cold, a whisper of smoke and a scarlet drop of blood tearing from the edge. -Nosihle Magwentshu