It was a silly little mistake. I was trying to nail my
husband’s favorite selfie to the wall when the hammer slipped and I pierced his
forehead with the claw. He was standing immediately behind me, micromanaging as
usual.
He collapsed on the apartment floor, the claw embedded
deeply in his thick skull. Placing one foot on his cranium, I wiggled it out.
This, in turn, produced copious bleeding, like a water
bubbler gurgling above his left eye. All of which saturated the Persian rug
he’d insisted we buy with my already overextended Capital One credit card.
Determined to limit the damage to the apartment (and
my security deposit), I dragged him into the bathtub, where he, at last, bled
out.
Pitying him for once, I gave his pale body a sponge
bath, cleaning him thoroughly in a way he seldom did himself.
Weak with shock, I filled the bath with hot water
until it covered us both to our chins. I, of course held his up.
I stared my husband for hours that turned into days.
His visage collapsed and his body stiffened. I lost my fear that he’d grab me
by the throat as he often had when I’d done something “bad.”
Then things got weird:
I fell madly in love with the bastard again. Still and
cold, he was the man I’d always desired but never had. He was always home, never
asked for money and never complained.
The bathtub, with its squalid water and terrible
stench, became our cozy little love nest. Frankly, it was the best time we’d
had together since he’d lost the key to our honeymoon hotel room and hadn’t
been able to rape me again that night.
No one, not even family, came to the apartment door.
My husband’s boasts and tirades had alienated everyone, including the Grubhub
and Doordash delivery guys. I subsisted on peanut butter, bread and my
new-found peace of mind. My husband, of course, required nothing but a daily
oiling to help preserve his drying skin.
But, as the philosophers say, all good things come to
an end. The police will be coming soon. I can almost smell it. And my neighbors
have probably started smelling my husband, too.
Perhaps, just perhaps, before I’m jailed, the cops
will let us renew our vows at a funeral home or crematorium. I can just see his
urn now, atop the wedding cake.
Hopefully, things will work out better between us next
time.
But that’s the beauty of loving a corpse. If you get
tired of one, you can always disinter another.
Bang!
Bang!
“Open up!”
Cops at the door threatening to kick it in!
“Just a minute. I’m not dressed,” I dragged my husband
into our bedroom. It wasn’t hard. He must have lost a hundred pounds.
“You have three minutes, lady. Then we’re breaking it
down. The building manager asked us to perform a welfare check. The hallway
stinks. Are you all right?”
“Better than ever,” I shouted, pulling on my old
wedding gown. Thank goodness, it still fit. Guess that was the silver lining to
my starvation diet of the past few weeks.
Bang!
Bang! Bang!
“Almost done!”
Crash!
Moving like lightning, I stuffed my husband into his
tuxedo, pulled him to his feet and worked his mouth into a beaming smile.
The cops spilled into our marital bedroom, stopped and
stared.
My mind whirling, weeks of isolation shattered, it
seemed appropriate to ask, “Is the limo outside?”
“The what?” the closest cop asked, finding his voice.
His badge said he was a sergeant.
“The limo. To drive to us to the wedding. We’re
renewing our vows.”
“Uh…”
A female officer, mature and wise, pushed her way to
the fore. “Sure, honey. It’s downstairs waiting. We’re the police escort. We’ll
be clearing the route.”
She turned to the sergeant, softly tapping finger
against her temple. He nodded.
This irritated me. “Oh, so you think I’m crazy?”
“Darlin’, what woman isn’t on her wedding day?” She
offered her arm. “C’mon, let’s walk downstairs. The sergeant here will help
your husband down. He looks a little peaked. We’ll that’s a man for you. Strong
as steel, except when it comes to walking down the aisle.”
Slowly, with great majesty, I descended the stairs.
The street was empty, but for multiple cruisers and flashing lights.
“The police escort?”
“You can call it that,” the policewoman answered. She
was so kind.
A long, black Cadillac pulled up. Two grim men exited
and removed my husband from the sergeant’s arms.
“Are you the limo drivers?” I asked.
One of them, an older man wearing blue plastic gloves,
eyed me quizzically. “Lady, we’re from the mortuary.”
The policewoman intervened before I had time to react.
“They had the only limo in town that wasn’t booked. Your husband will be riding
with them. You’re up here with me,” she said, guiding me towards a grey
four-door sedan.
I began to squirm. For the first time since I killed
my husband, something seemed off. “You mean we’re riding separately? Never
heard of that.”
“It’s the latest trend, Bride magazine says,” the policewoman replied. She tightened her
grip.
I slapped her face.
The two cops and the driver of the grey sedan wrestled
me into the back seat. They strapped me in with a seat belt and wide leather
straps. A gauzy hood came down over my head. I bit it with my teeth. A torn label
flopped over. It read Property State
Hospital.
“We’re not going to a chapel! You’re committing me!”
“You’ll have you own private room,” the policewoman
said. Her lip was bleeding and her cheek was red.
“It’s called the honeymoon suite. After you,” the driver
cracked. He put the sedan in gear.
“Why?”
“It’s the same locked room you occupied after you
hammered your first husband to death ten years ago,” the policewoman said. She
adjusted the hood so it was easier for me to breathe. “With a ball peen, that time.”
It all came back now, the secret I had tucked away,
after they’d freed me on conditional release. My pervert dad. My volcanic
anger. My bad taste for very bad men.
I screamed. And kept screaming every moment of every
day, for years and years.
To ensure that my voice, and the voice of all
mistreated women, was finally, truly heard.
By: Anonymous
As Told To: Heatherleen Glade
