SUNDAY MORNING
It was a strange, unexpected thought as I glanced over at the man I had married, wondering how the ugliest of hearts could be wrapped in the most beautiful skin. Evil never sleeps, they say. But I was watching it sleep at this very moment, in my own bed.
My bedroom was unusually silent, devoid of the stentorian snoring that usually tortured my ears all night long. Owen slept more soundly than usual, it seemed. Maybe it was a fitting way to go. He didn’t know I was here, my eyes glued to him slumbering. I imagined what dreams fluttered through his head, what fears manifested or hopes surfaced. My last dream was about Robin and I taking a beach trip together, wriggling our toes in the sand, running in the surf. We were friends again in my dream. But that wasn’t last night, because last night I hadn’t slept. Instead I sat in my car in an empty parking lot brooding and plotting. Then plotting and brooding some more.
Memories of Owen choking me kept me company in my car for hours. Bruises and red dashes across my skin pulsated in the darkness. His words belittling me, stripping me of all dignity, stealing all my self-worth, echoing against the walls of my mind. I came to a realization last night: I couldn’t live with him anymore. And I couldn’t survive without him. But with his insurance policy, I could rise again.
Now here I was, standing above my husband, my mind clear and my hatred fully formed.
How evil and love coexisted inside of me was a mystery I couldn’t solve. Owen had been my first love, the one who burrowed into my heart for keeps. No matter how much he had rotted on the inside, he was a gorgeous man to look at. He’d always taken great care of himself, working out regularly at the fitness club and eating healthily – which meant I’d had to give up some of my favorite Southern fried dishes. I’d often compared him to Bradley Cooper – my personal Hollywood heartthrob – but Owen would just shrug and say that looks weren’t everything. He was right. If only I had seen what was underneath the handsome façade, I wouldn’t be standing here contemplating murder.
The day we first met, he had approached me in the cafeteria, buttoned-up shirt straining against his rippling muscles, his posture straight and soldierly. And like a good little soldier, he was always ready for battle.
He battled against my friends to date me and won. Then he battled my parents for my hand in marriage and won again. He battled through our twenty-plus years together to maintain control. He won again and again, until now. Now it was my turn.
In the darkness I watched him lying there on his side, gray bedspread pulled up to his chin. Gray, the color of our life together. The color of our bland marriage, full of routine predictability because God forbid we ever go on an adventure together. We shopped at the same stores, dined at the same restaurants, prepared the same meals, spent our weekends doing the same thing over and over on endless repeat, day after week after month after year. Daring to color outside the lines would certainly send our lives crashing into the abyss, as far as Owen was concerned. And so on it went in predictable banality, so much that sometimes I wanted to lash out and do something daring just to see what would happen. Would our insular little world explode? Would we survive the change?
Fear drives evil, and Owen was deeply afraid. A man controls someone else because he’s afraid of losing his puppet, or more likely, himself. Just as Owen controlled me, because I let him be what he wanted to be – powerful and in charge. In the bedroom he made sure I knew this, and for those hellish minutes he had full control over my body, my voice, my will.
I loved him every other minute in the day except for those minutes when I hated him, loathed him, wished him dead. And those minutes added up night after night. He had chipped away at my self-worth until nothing remained. He had sabotaged my friendships, turning people against me. I suffered in silence, because Aria at least remained untouched. Owen was my cross to bear, but Aria … he wouldn’t be hers.
But things changed. Owen changed. Aria changed. And now I had changed. I touched the sore spot on my neck that had already begun to purple. I hoped my concealer would be sufficient to cover it, since a turtleneck in May would raise red flags. I’d gotten used to hiding my face along with the bruises – mostly easy to cover on my upper arms or ass. But every once in a while it wasn’t so easy to hide, and using the old ‘I ran into the door’ excuse never worked. Friends saw through it. Hell, even strangers knew that line. It had become something of a twisted game keeping the secret from Aria – that her father was a boxer in the bedroom and her mother a weak punching bag.
Last night I made the decision, for real this time. I wanted Owen out of my life and no longer in a position to taint my daughter’s perception of men and marriage and relationships. But if I left him, he’d still have his chokehold, because he controlled the money that controlled me. I could get a crappy job with my limited skills – a career sacrifice that all stay-at-home moms blindly made as we trusted our husbands to stand by us until death do us part. I could barely scrape by, but he’d end up with full custody of Aria, because money bought lawyers who bought custody. Real freedom was what I wanted, and I knew just how to get it.
Despite Owen’s empty threat, the locks hadn’t been changed. In fact, like an idiot he had left the back door cracked open, an invitation for trouble. He was lucky it was only me slipping in through the back and not some vandal. He had no idea how much I did for this family behind the scenes, keeping us safe and fed and out of debt. What gratitude did I get? None. Well, it was time to pay up.
After eighteen cell phone messages alternating between threats and pleas for me to come home last night, each one drunker than the next, I knew I had him where I wanted him. You see, Owen was a deep sleeper to begin with, but after a couple of drinks he slept like the dead. I knew he’d turn to alcohol after I left and didn’t immediately return. It was his crutch when he couldn’t cope.
I didn’t get home until after three in the morning. Not wanting to be seen out in public, I had parked at the empty Monroeville Mall parking lot, just sitting and thinking and conjuring up a simple plan – so simple I didn’t think it would work. When I got home, it didn’t take long to stage the house without waking everyone, and before the blush of dawn I had finished my ultimate masterpiece. It looked perfect, from the broken glass of the back door, to the missing wallets, and even the stolen jewelry and other small valuables. The perfect staging for the perfect crime. And Owen’s precious Lexus that kept us car-rich but savings-poor was long gone, dropped off in the middle of the ghetto with the key in the ignition, where some lucky thug would be enjoying a free joyride this morning.
All that was left was to complete the mission. Maybe I was a coward for plotting it like this, for waiting until Owen was defenseless and asleep, but I knew my limitations and I knew his strengths. This was the only way.
The barking of the next-door neighbor’s dog prodded me with sudden urgency. Standing over him, I gently moved the covers just enough to reveal his neck. Hot tears burned my eyes, and I swallowed the knot in my throat. I’d miss him. I’d spent half of my life with him. I’d probably never find someone who could love me again, not with the way I looked … But that was Owen talking, wasn’t it? He was the one who told me I was too ugly to find love elsewhere. He was the one who constantly reminded me how much I needed him. He was the one who stole pieces of me until there was nothing left. Manipulating. Controlling. Gaslighting. Owen was getting what he deserved.
You think I’m ugly? I’ll show you ugly. The thought was bitter but satisfying.
One … two … three, I counted in my head.
I banished the sadness and pressed the kitchen knife against his throat, my hands shaking but my resolve solid. I inhaled a draft of courage and lifted the knife. The blade glinted against the bathroom nightlight, which was casting my shadow across the floor. I closed my eyes, turned my head, and dashed the blade across his throat, using my weight to press the blade in deep. I couldn’t watch myself do it, so I let the pressure guide me. Initially his skin resisted, then I felt the pop of his flesh slicing open. Another push and the cartilage and soft tissue of his larynx gave way. I waited for something to happen, for him to scream in pain, for him to fight back … but nothing happened. He peacefully drifted off, and I was almost glad for him.
Then he was gone.