The final word

Is truth the final word. He arrived home late, walked up the stairs, kissed his children goodnight. He didn't feel any different before or after doing it. It was just another routine. He felt no love in the action. He went back down to the fridge. Took out some milk. Another routine he wasn't thirsty. Sat on the kitchen table and started thinking about it. His wife was upstairs in bed. Another routine waiting to be fulfilled. He thought about it. Went and sat on the couch, turn on the box. Background noise... He couldn't give a fuck. He spilt some milk on the couch. Damn velvet cushions. She was going to kill him. He looked at the white puddle, didn't do anything about it just watched the milk sinking in. He knew he was in for trouble. He thought, well I'm doomed already, better get some fun out of it. He tipped the glass over and spilt poured the rest of the milk all over the place. Now this is fun. I wish I could have mor fun more often. The routine. The dry kiss in the morning, the have a good day, the take care at school, the same everyday. He went out into the garden, left the telly on. Took his car keys out of his pocket. He had a good job and a nice mercedes. Sat inside turned the engine on and drove it over the lawn and crammed it into the garage door. Now that was fun too. His wife would wake up now and he was going to have to hear about it. The yelling, the complaints, the misunderstanding, he knew she would be circumstancial analyzing each and every action and she wouldn't think about him or the why behind it all. He turned the ignition on again, pushed the blown-up airbag to the side and reversed into the street. He looked at the front door, she was just coming out of the front door. She stared at the car with its front all done in, she looked at him, he looked at her. In his mind he said goodbye. He put his foot down and drove the car over the lawn smack into the front door catching her by the waist. Her head bent over bang into the hood of the car, his head flew out of the already broken window and smack into the front door and then down on top of hers. And there they lay. Fainted, with her head on the cold hood of the car and a warm trickle of blood, his head on top of hears with the same blood flowing into her hair and left ear joining the streak of her blood. Finally together again, as one, out of the routine, together for life, better and worse. The neighbours lights started lighting up while their own lights slowly faded out. They finally felt together again. Is the final word the truth.