Creative Writing 2
His wife told him to do it. He didn’t want to. She wasn’t in the kitchen with him, he could fake it and she would never know if he had actually done it or not. Although, the proximity of the back door would be a dead give-away for an escape. He stood there in the kitchen staring blankly at the underneath of the bottom of the counters. It’s under there, he thought, She told me to do it. I’ve got to. But he was too kind hearted, with soft hands and perfectly rounded nails that exhibit his organized, polite nature. Never could he ever intentionally do anything harmful to anyone. Regardless, he stooped down to his knees on the repetitively square, white linoleum, pushing his smooth yet masculine hands into the floor to support himself. Peering underneath the bottom of the counter, he was eye to eyes with the eight-legged animal.
“I can’t do it, Rachel!” he yelled, “He didn’t do anything to me!”
“But you’re the man! I ain’t doing it! I ain’t even going to look at it!” she yelled back.
He continued to stare at the taunting, life-abundant spider that was cowering into the linoleum lining between the floor and the counter. The spider twitched its front legs upward towards his mandibles to clean himself. The man leaned onto his elbows and inched his hand forward; each of his fingers were uniform with each other, each representing his gentle and considerate nature. Every knuckle curved the with the same manner; each wrinkle displayed a color that was slightly darker than the skin folding around it. His fingers looked as if he had experienced so much and had absorbed so much trauma—the possible result of his marriage.