Outside, it’s dark and hot. A battered hatchback with frangipani stickers on the back windshield is parked on a cracked driveway. The house is small and unimpressive, like the suburb in which it’s located. Inside is a young couple. They’re on a hand-me-down sofa drinking white wine.

She takes a sip and contorts her mouth. What do you expect for $6.98 a bottle?

“I’m scared,” she says.
“A few more glasses should fix that,” he says, smiling. Trying to allay her fears with humour. He was always good at that. That’s why she married him.
“Cheap wine’s not gonna fix the economy, babe,” she says.
Even with this weary mask of uncertainty she’s as beautiful as the day he met her. She was the sort of girl who, despite being put through the emotional wringer, maintained her looks. That’s why he married her.
“Nothing’s gonna fix the economy. Not me, not you, not politicians, nothing. We just have to sit tight,” he says, gazing into her blue, feline eyes. She runs a hand through her blonde hair. It’s a nervous gesture.
“Maybe I should go back to working at Coles.”
“We agreed on this, babe. I’ll bring in the money and you look after the girls.”
“Well it’s not enough. At this rate, we’ll lose the house by the end of the year and the twins are gonna be starting school next year. And…uh,” she trails off and sips some more cheap Sauvignon Blanc.
“I can try to pick up some cashies on the weekend. Maybe do some labouring on Sundays?” He says, patience fading. It’s not the first time they’ve had this talk.
“Yeah. I mean, it’s the kids, babe. I worry,” she says, refilling their glasses.
“Don’t worry, babe,” he says, stroking her cheek, “They’ll be fine. We’ve gotten this far. I’m sure we can last a little longer.”
“I’m not worried about them, babe. They’re, like, bleeding us dry,” she says, drowning her sorrows with the tart swill.
He empties his glass and exchanges it for the bottle. He swirls it around to see how much wine is left, then, confident he can skol it, downs the remainder.
“You know I hate it when you start blaming the kids for our money problems,” he says.
“I’m sorry, babe, but it’s true” she says, sheepishly pursing her bubblegum lips.
“OK. That’s fine. But what the hell do you wanna do about it?”
That’s her cue. She walks into the kitchen and fetches a couple of long, sharp knives. The man on the commercial used one to cut through a shoe, which had sold her.
“What the hell, babe? This is your solution?”
She waves the knives about playfully.
“Just think about it for a sec. We’ll never have to drink pissy wine again, we can make headway on our mortgage and I can finally trade in the Toyota and get something with power windows and air-con that works. This is for us, babe. We don’t have to live like this any more.”
He thinks about it for a sec. He thinks about his shitty apprenticeship wages and working the night fill at Coles every second day. He thinks about eating the same bloody peanut butter sandwich for lunch every day. He thinks about the fact he could be fired at any time. He thinks about how things were before the kids – sex, sleep-ins, fun times, zero worries.
He takes a knife from her.
They creep into the girls’ room. Posters of Disney princesses are on the walls and dolls, coloured bouncy balls, picture books and Lego are scattered over the carpeted floor. He heads over to Kara’s bed, while she makes her way to Brooke. The girls are on their backs, fast asleep, clutching pink blankets.
The knives are easily thrust into their soft bodies. They barely wake before they die. The only sound besides the knives whooshing in and out of the girls is a hiccup-yawn of shock. They walk back into the living room with bloodstained hands and red speckles on their clothes. Like two triumphant musketeers, they clash their crimson, dripping blades and laugh. It is the first time they’ve been happy in a long time.

“Here’s to the future, babe,” she says.