Dear Diary: Day 3 (fiction from the attic)
I trust by now that you can keep a secret. He’s dead. I expected him to put up much more of a fight, like they do in the movies; but no, one well aimed bullet really does kill a man. It wasn’t as dramatic as I expected. But it was more blood than I had planned for. Not enough to be a deterrent, he was already dead by then, but enough to make me think I should have done it differently. Maybe next time, if there is a next time, I will use a different method, a poison perhaps. I hadn’t even planned to do it, not that night any way.
The night started out as any other night. He wanted to talk about the state of our relationship, again. The last time we had this talk, he had decided he wanted to work things out and completely end his extra marital relationship. This time he didn’t feel that he could end the relationship cold turkey. Apparently, he was addicted. He had to be on something to have suggested we could work on the marriage while he sorts out his feelings for his girlfriend.
He had finally succeeded. I was hurt. To have allowed me to believe, no matter how briefly, that with counseling, dedication, commitment and trust we could perhaps come out of this whole thing with a strong relationship, only to pull that away. To make me feel when I had stopped feeling; to make me hope when I had stopped hoping; to make me want what I had stopped wanting.
Slowly, for if nothing else I had time, I climbed the stairs leading to my bedroom. I went directly to the lock box, hidden in the nook underneath the dresser. With steady hand unlocking the box using the key I kept in the locket around my neck, I decisively reached for the gun. Pausing only to admire my reflection in the mirror, I descended the steps. I almost expected to hear music to accompany the deafening bass of my beating heart. Surely, I thought, he would hear me approaching. In the time it took me to join him in the living room, I saw the entire scene played out in my mind: his suspecting my intentions; attacking me from behind; struggling for the gun; a sharp report; a flash of light, the blood, the dead body, but who’s?
It turned out to be much less dramatic. I would be lying if I denied having had second thoughts. All indecision disappeared as I watched him sitting there on my couch; unlit cigarette in one hand; glass he had no intention of washing in the other; with cell phone ringing. It was ringing and he was planning to answer it and it would be her. He would talk to her, make plans with her. In my house, in my face with the look on his face which clearly said, “So.” This honestly was fine with me. What I could not take was the total lack of regret.
After a few minutes he hung up. Instead of the apology I half expected he asked, “Now, where were we?”
I shot him. No hesitation, little regret. There was just the muffled sound of the bullet entering his body and the change of his facial expression. It was almost anticlimactic, but not quite. There was so much blood. It was on the couch, the wall, the floor, even in his glass. I couldn’t help but think, after all that I still would have to wash that damned glass.
Despite the temptation, I cleaned up the blood before disposing of the body. You hear of people getting caught by the most minuscule details, like blood splatters on the ceiling or something. I would not be caught due to lack of effort. I mean for hours I was scrubbing on hand and knee lest the blood stain the carpet. I cleaned the entire living room, laughing as I thought of investigators combing the area for evidence. Anyway, I decided to throw the glass away.
As for the disposal of the body, my first thoughts were rather gory and morbid. I couldn’t decide between chopping him into little pieces or burning him and scattering his remains throughout
It was quite the dilemma until I remembered the more complicated the pattern,
the more likely it is to unravel. Don’t
ask me where I read that. Baltimore
To make a long story short, I dragged him out in to the backyard and buried him deep below the untended garden, covered by the piles of leaves he had been promising for months to rake.