I know how this looks. Psychopath wife murders her husband in cold blood. Oldest parable ever told.
My sweet sweet husband. Wait. Let me zoom in. Much better. Pacing about his prison as if that is going to help. What did Shakespeare say : hell has no fury like a woman pissed off. Time to break sweet husband down and toss whatever remains into a volcano. Lets start with his phone.
Buddy seems calm. Stretched out on the cold floor and dreaming of meat chunks. I am sorry for him. I like dogs.
Back when I was a kid, I remember we had a Doberman named Shadow. He would run behind my bicycle as I pedalled around my housing colony. That was a good dog. Those were good days.
I am sorry you might have to die, Buddy. Know in your heart, just like you can sense cancer and ghosts, that I am rooting for you. I hope you rip out that gullet of his that fooled me a million times into believing that he loves me.
Oh yes, girl. I have been a proper fool. A bimbo, like they say.
No more though. Not anymore.
It’s a glorious morning. Nothing is sweeter than waking up and not finding him next to me.
Any leftover bitterness will wash down smoothly with this bourbon. It’s from his personal collection. Oh how I dreaded the smell of it on his breath. Those were bad nights. The worst. His temples flared, eyes bloodshot, breath fuming with bourbon, cock hard as a dumbbell.
Gently the fingers of his left hand would trace my face, tuck wayward locks of hair behind my ears, and brush the nape of my neck as if he was Van Gogh painting a starry night. I think in some corner of my heart I still believed he loved me. Perhaps some part of me still believes it. I don’t know though, Valium and bourbon at seven in the morning might have some side effects.
Anyway, Mr. Van-Fucking-Gogh would transform in the blink of an eye. His hand clamping down on my throat, icy metallic rings digging into my thin skin, the other hand sliding underneath my skirt. I didn’t resist. He loved me. He just couldn’t get it up any other way.
I always tried to move to his rhythm. Like a good wife. I wanted him to be happy. I wanted to make him feel good. I would match his rhythm and he would turn up the tempo with a right hook across my face. Nothing that couldn’t be hidden with a dab of my five thousand rupee MAC concealer. He was always caring that way.
The Valium helped as well. Two years into the marriage and I was high as a cuckoo all the time. It numbed the pain. It made life… bearable.
I had contemplated fixing an audio device into his prison as well. Then I figured I would rather fuck a cactus than hear his voice again. This grainy live feed will have to do.
There you go ! He is live and sleeping. Curled up next to his Buddy for warmth. You should thank me for the little mercies I bestow upon you, hubby.
I think Buddy took a dump last night, right there, in the corner. I suppose he must have peed as well. I doubt Buddy and his Master are ever going to take a dump again.
A man can go without water for almost a week. Maybe a month without food. I googled.
This scientific fact, however, has never been established. I suppose no one volunteered to be a test subject. I guess I will help the scientific community in this regard. Lets see how long this fish can breathe out of water.
He is pacing about again. Buddy is doing the same. At some point the two are bound to consider eating each other up. That would be something, right?
Five years since we tied the knot. Nothing fancy. My parents were dead against it. He’s too rich, they said. His family would never accept us. It didn’t matter though. The world can go to hell, he said. We are getting married.
We did. That was the day I sealed my fate.
O it wasn’t all bad in the beginning. He was…. attentive. He paid attention to whatever I said or did. He knew I prefer orchids over lilies. That I will watch anything with Hugh Grant in it. That I read every Stephen King book at least twice over. O yes, he knew me well enough to know that I had become entirely dependent on him; I had never earned a dime in my life; my folks hadn’t bothered to talk to me ever since I deserted them and married him.
I remember him taking me into his arms when the doctor said I would never have a child. Not with my inhospitable womb at least. I like to believe that’s the moment when the rot began.
Orchids turned grey in the crystal vases and the water in which their stalks lay submerged smelled of sewers. Dine outs to expensive restaurants at Connaught Place became extinct. We stopped having sex.
He bought Buddy soon after.
He is quiet today. No screaming into the walls. No pacing about.
Is this how he surrenders?
Why don’t you try a right hook into the wall, dear husband? Smash your way out?
I bet he would never have believed that I could lock him away. I can almost hear him whisper, and even if you did have the balls to do it, you wouldn’t have the brains to do it, you retarded bimbo.
In a way, I get it. I was dumb enough to believe that he loved me. Dumb enough to isolate myself from all my friends because I didn’t want them questioning me about the black eye or the blue prints of his fingers around my neck. I was a bimbo. By God, I am guilty as charged.
We hadn’t been sleeping together for some time when it all began. He pinned me against the dresser in our bedroom. This was new to me. He lifts my skirt and the candelabra, which I had never once used to hold candles, is now in his hand. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. I have never felt such pain. I swallow air and my lungs shiver. Still pinned to the dresser, I try to block out the blows with my hand but that only infuriates him. He smashes through my hands and they recoil at once; fingers displaced. The song begins. A rhythm is established; faster; louder; harder.
I cum. I think of Jared Leto’s Joker emerging from a chemical brew. Smiling?
Times change. Like Justin Timberlake says, what goes around comes around.
I have no qualms admitting that none of this is original. It’s been in my mind for a long time. Perhaps when I read King’s Survivor Type? Or Sansa Stark leaving out that Bolton guy to be savaged by his own hounds?
Doesn’t really matter. Each experience is unique.
I empty out the underground water tank one weekend when he is away on a ‘business trip’. Its four metres deep and just as wide with an iron lid that is always locked shut. I fix up a night vision camera in there and wait for sweet Hubby to return.
He comes home and gorges on the chicken curry I fixed for him. Just another of the small mercies I bestow upon you. While he eats, I lure Buddy into the backyard with a meat jerky; his tail wagging in innocence, mouth drooling like the Niagara Falls.
Poor Buddy trusts me as a baby trusts his Mama. I suppose all Golden retrievers are this way. Doesn’t take me much to lift him into my arms ( my daily supplement of cocaine has been handy) and to drop the poor soul into the tank. He lands on his feet, bones intact.
The next bit is tricky. But I guess it’s my lucky day.
I tell him Buddy has fallen into the tank and he rushes into the backyard. I suppose he thinks he will deal with me later. It is 2 in the afternoon and he sees the tank is dry. Doesn’t think twice before jumping into the tank. I slam the tank lid shut.
I lock the lid and then cover it with a Nandi statue. It weighs close to a tonne but as I have already disclosed, my supplements impart superhuman strength ( albeit for a short span of time ). No sweat.
For lunch, I light up the old barbecue in the backyard. He always did love Kebabs. If he can smell them, he should thank me for the small mercies I bestow upon him. Amen.
I decide to spend my evening with my husband ( through the laptop, of course ). Jim Beam in my Glencairn, hopelessness in his heart, and Sinatra on the stereo singing once in a while along the way, love’s been good to me……
Buddy hasn’t moved all morning.
My dear husband is still alive.
I think I need more Valium. And more bourbon.
Buddy is definitely dead. His eyes gleam in the darkness. My husband closes them gently and pets Buddy one last time. How touching! I might cry.
Another hour passes. Maybe more. I’m out of Bourbon. He is definitely going to make a meal out of Buddy. You should thank me for the little mercies I bestow upon you.
I must have dozed off before my husband cut open Buddy’s stomach. Intestines, blood, and regurgitated flesh splatter the floor of the tank.
My sweet husband is mumbling to himself and staring at the red circle on the camera that stares back at him.
I lean close to the laptop screen and rescue some of the cocaine that has found its way between the keys of the laptop.
He is dead. Officially.
I suppose the scientific community will be disappointed. I lost track of the number of days he survived.
It is going to be lonely without him.
I wonder if there is a restart button in life.
The amount of drugs coursing through my bloodstream at the moment is probably worth as much as the money you make in five years. It’s going to take one hell of a rehab to fix me.
I suppose this is as good a time as any to catch the next flight to America and toss my passport into the Hudson.
These are all great thoughts. I intend to follow them through.
Right now, however, I mix a bit of cough syrup into Ardbeg. A celebratory toast.
On the stereo, Bob Marley : emancipate yourself from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our mind…..