'Till Death Do Us Part

    The fountain provided me with more solace than any human could. There was a sense of friendship and loyalty the carved beings possessed. Each of the statues featured were intricately designed, wearing togas as they held up a large jar with streams of water pouring into the basin of the fountain.

    Who are they? I wondered. Greek gods and goddesses? Or merely commoners. Were they lovers, or siblings perhaps? Maybe simply friends.

Such questions availed me. But they did not truly matter. For it was the companionship and camaraderie I desired. That share of burdens . . . oh how I wished for someone to share my inequities with. But there was only one I knew well. Only one who made me rot from within, making me want to tear my flesh from bone. My wife. My wretched evil wife.

I departed from the plaza where the fountain dwelt, I did love to linger, but I could not evade returning home forever. My wife would be waiting. Waiting to scold me and question why I was late. Ready to throw her impetuous criticisms while she let her own life corrode away. Drats I hated that woman!

As I entered, I found my wife sitting in a chair beside a small round table. Clasped in one hand she held her lime green absinthe, half empty, and in her other hand a freshly lit cigarette, though I knew it to not be her first. Several crunched cigarettes laid in and beside her ash tray.

The woman’s neck was covered in bumps and rashes and her eyes were dark from lack of sleep. Oh how I hated this woman. Letting herself obsequiously fall subject to the world’s monstrosities.

“You are home late again, husband,” she said.

    Why the woman bothered to attach the word ‘husband’ at the end was beyond me. She didn’t love me and I felt no affection for her either. But, by law and vows, we were still married. That sickened me to the core. But . . . ‘till death do us part.’

    Perhaps, yes, perhaps that was the way.

    “I work late,” I stated. It wasn’t anything more than that. A statement. A true one too. I did work late. Begging to God she would be asleep by the time I returned. But she never was. Oh she never was.

    She smiled. “Would you like a drink, dear?” she asked. ‘Dear,’ said in the cruelest of tones.

    I was amazed her words were coherent. I could tell she was inebriated. Though there were so many stages to drunkenness that I wondered if a different term would befit her state. For when she awoke to soberness, I knew she would have no recollection of tonight.

    Truly, I longed to kill her. I wanted to wrench out her tongue and force the glass from her drink down her esophagus! But . . . I could not. I could never. She often claimed I was not a man. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps that is why she had to die, our daughter.

    I shook my head, ignoring her, as was best, and began to step past. But she made the most surprising of comments.

    “I’m glad,” she said, in the most sincere of tones.

    Glad? I wondered. I had to halt, I had to register what she said in my brain. For her tone sounded so honest and firm that I couldn’t believe it. I had wanted nothing more than to pass her and sleep, but I was too intrigued to hear what provoked this unanticipated glee. My eyes shifted toward her.

    “I’m glad,” she continued. “That she’s dead. That wretched little cur. Your daughter.” She snorted, her gaze forward and not meeting my own. “I did it, you know? I suffocated the little—”

    I slammed a fist into her skull. Her head ricocheted as it hit the wall and the table tipped over. I didn’t see where it went, but I heard her glass of absinthe shatter.

    She was stunned.

    So was I. But I couldn’t stop, not after what I heard. I did not beg for any more details. I did not care. I came upon her like a hellish fiend and wrung my fingers around her throat. I clenched and squeezed. I slammed and shouted. There was blood, there was gasping, and . . . there were tears.

    But it had ended. She . . . was dead. She was dead!

    I stepped back, amazed by what I had done. Enthralled. My black gloved fingers touched my lips. I shuddered. Fear? No, excitement. Thrill. But, this was not wrong. This was right. It was vengeance. She killed my daughter! I should have known! Was I blinded by love? Not by any love I had for her. But for a love I believed all mothers possessed? An unconditional love akin to God? Yes, that was my reasoning, but I was wrong. This woman was hatred and evil incarnate. God would thank me!

    But others would not see it so. I then felt panicked. Realizing this could not be hidden so easily. While God in Heaven may be pleased with my work, it is not so that men on Earth would feel the same.

    And so, I began to work. I drew her body into the bathroom, pulling her into a tub. I left her there for a moment as I cleaned up the scene of the crime. An easy mess to tidy, as there was very little blood. As I worked I began to devise a plan. The most simplest of plans. To bury the body in the backyard. If one were to write a detailed novel on murder and how to hide a body, they would highly advise against such a tactic. But the woman was not well known. She was a foreigner! A low class wench from Macedonia. No one would care and no one would grieve if they knew!

    I then returned to the bathroom and jerked the shower curtain from the tub. But then, I shrieked! She was smiling! A bloody smile and her eyes were open, wide open. Alive. Blood streamed down from them, but she seemed very much alive to me. I wrapped the shower curtain around my fist and struck her. I prepared to again only to realize she was not alive.

    “I am overreacting,” I said aloud. I smiled. “You old fool. You’re just paranoid.” I laughed and calmly wrapped her body in the shower curtain. I laughed again. I could not believe I had acted in such a childish way. But, it was funny.

I dragged her body from the bathroom and set it next to the door. I returned shortly after digging the hole and then buried her out in the backyard. As I reentered, I smiled and gave a sigh of relief. For the first time since before my daughter had passed, I felt at peace. I slept well that night. Better than I had in a very long time.

. . .

I awoke in the morning feeling refreshed. I knew the day would be mine. I shouted “carpe diem!” and leapt from my bed. Oh what a day it shall be.

Entering the bathroom, I cursed as I realized I needed a new shower curtain. I should not have buried it along with that woman. It was a perfectly good curtain! As I began to turn the knob on the sink however, my joy quickly faded. For it was not water that ran from the faucet but blood! Oh pity me, Father, why is there blood running from my sink?! Did it perhaps have something to do with the dead woman in my backyard? No, how could that interfere with the plumbing?! That is an absurd assertion!

I turned the faucet off and stepped to the shower, trying that spigot. Water.

    I relaxed.

    I turned back to the sink and attempted once more and this time, water. I washed my hands and face then brushed my teeth. Afterward, I stripped naked and began to shower. I felt all of the grime leave my body. Both physical and spiritual. No, I had lost my spiritual grime when I purged that woman of her life. That was a baptism of revenge.

    As I opened my eyes however, I began to turn to true terror. The faucet sprayed out blood! Why was I being wrought with such misfortune?! Out! I must get out of this house!

    I left the shower, quickly getting dried and dressed. I could not wipe all the blood off of me, I could still smell its stench. Oh, how it smelled like her! Why did it have to smell like that woman?! ‘Till death do us part,’ so why was I being haunted by her?!

I stormed from the house, making way toward the only place I knew I could find comfort. When I reached it, I fell to my knees in horror. Blood drained from the eyes and mouths of wicked grins. The statues I once thought to be gods and goddesses were most evidently now demon-spawn from Hell. They held up their basin, pouring down a waterfall of death, the River Styx itself, a splurge of ghoulish blood from my wife. For death, did not do us part.