A tumultuous bundle of washing mixed with the suds and she couldn’t stop watching them. They wrapped around each other in an effort to stay quiet. Now on spin, she dared not look away.
At first she was going to throw the clothes out, but money was tight, and she couldn’t afford to throw them away.
Only this morning, her only thoughts were to get through the day. Now blood pumped around her veins in a way she was unused to. She concentrated on the slow ticking of the clock on the wall. The passing of time slow, methodical, louder than before.
In a deep spin the clothes merged into one, and drowned out all the noise. Unnaturally quiet, she would have t get the dinner on. Steve would be home soon, and the dinner wasn’t on.
Even the washing machine silenced itself, and she opened the door. Her clothes, damp and listless, on the bottom of the drum. Like she had done so many times before, they were carefully lifted out and into the drier.
Now she needed to wash up, but all the dishes were in the front room.
‘Pull yourself together,’ she said, but the words felt fuzzy on her tongue.
One short step, followed by another, and the sudden silence stopped her from going any further. He should be shouting, screaming, complaining about the wait.
‘Derick, I won’t be long,’ she says, not able to go any further.
Something was in her way, and her head dipped towards the floor – it looked like he was sleeping, but he wasn’t.
Was he?
Writer Ravenclaw 
That one snuck up on ya! Creepy good!
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Thank you, not naturally a horror writer.
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