The Last President. Michael Kurland

his wife naked, lying on their bed, staring at the ceiling. Her eyes were puffy and black, and blood from her mouth and her genitals was drying on the pink pastel sheet. There were bruises over much of her body. She did not hear him when he called out. Her eyes did not focus on him when he leaned over her. He called his doctor and then the police. Then he returned to the side of the bed. “Darling,” he said.

      This time her eyes almost focused. “Ralph,” she whispered. “Why?”