***Warning: Sexual Content, Suggestive Violence, & Strong Language
My wife has been in the shower for over thirty minutes. She is going to make us late again, but our punctuality is inconsequential on a night as auspicious as this one.
It’s not unusual for her to be in there an excessive amount of time when we have to attend these types of events. Perhaps she’s rehearsing the usual lines about the trivial bullshit she read in the news, or the celebrity gossip she’s keen on following, pretending we’re similar to those riffraff because we have one thing in common: money. Or maybe she’s assembling the ways in which she’ll present the lies that embellish the stature of her family and their latest “achievements.”
Doing so is common dinner conversation for her, along with everyone else looking to impress their peers, but such meaningless discussion is repeated so often it should flow from her mouth as naturally as her vomit after every meal.
Sometimes I consider the possibility she’s scrubbing at the leftover sins that remain on her pussy from her most recent affair. The last time I visited my pink friend (I shouldn’t say pink because the dirt from countless transgressions and age have stained them a bloody brown) my tongue quivered after cracking the filthy white chunks that fell from her lips with each wet stroke. I am ashamed to admit it, but I sort of enjoyed the sensation! Merely the thought of some other poor fool being ensnared by her trap excited me; no, it invigorated me! It made me feel something I hadn’t felt the entirety of my life: un-alone (if there is such a word). It turned out I wasn’t the only idiot who succumbed to its mesmerizing power, and I knew I wasn’t the only one on the island, so to speak.
What’s even better—it has long justified what I plan on doing to her before the evening is through.
I haven’t much time before nature makes me return this rental as a carcass, and the good Lord knows I have squandered the brief instance of life I was so graciously given by Him—mostly in part from being contractually bound to that wretched siren since I entered adulthood.
Even then, when I professed my rehearsed vows, I knew I didn’t love her and predicted my signature would be a death sentence for my happiness. My youthful ignorance, or what some may describe as optimism, was responsible for me believing that my feelings for her could change. But it took less than a few unbearable hours on my honeymoon to realize I’d married the devil. Any future happiness would be forever unobtainable because I sacrificed my soul to her.
Sure, I’ve come home with the stink of my own lover’s basted on myself now and again, but the little satisfaction I could find was diminished, if not completely eradicated, by the control she had over me. I could only see her empty marble eyes glaring at me from within the sweat on their glistening backs.
Did I learn to love her at one point? Perhaps. Love can mean many things to many people. But what I felt was not for who she was, rather, it was for what she provided: my only son.
He’s dead now; died long ago by what was no doubt her hand. The authorities, who described their interpretation of the clues in excruciating detail, convinced me to believe he died from a sort of ‘auto self-asphyxiation.’ When my grief subsided and sobriety brought about clarity, I had the revelation that my boy did not leave this earth like some sick pervert—he was only nine, after all.
She did it and I have no doubts about that now.
While her motives and ability to escape blame remain unclear to the authorities, I can safely assume her actions were driven by greed. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes the day Terry was born…there was no love, no awe directed toward the miracle before us. They merely glazed over with spiteful, venomous resent. A lizard would have shown more affection to my son than her.
My heir, my purpose, the only human I’ve ever truly loved, was unmistakably taken from me because she didn’t want to share the inheritance (which she must’ve predicted I’d never give her a fucking nickel after he was born).
Wealth has been nothing but a burden on me. Many would say I was born blessed—spoiled is more appropriate—but God has challenges for us all. Mine came in the form of privilege, which hindered my ability to cope with the malevolence (but mostly cruelty) of the God I serve.
The majority of my early years were experienced adversity free, turning me into a man unprepared for the suffering I’d face. Of course, I had to grow up quickly the day I met my beloved, but it was already too late.
At first, she compensated for her devilish ways by taking it upon herself to mediate problematic social situations; the ones I was unequipped to handle. I considered her an ally then. But as I found out, years later, she was either responsible for the circumstances I was in, or she made them worse. I’ve never seen her practice it before, but I’ll bet all my riches that I can attribute my life’s most painful moments to her witchcraft.
My naivety is partially to blame. However, I do point the finger at the way I was raised for my ignorance. Had I spent some time with regular people instead of those who were fed with silver spoons by a gloved butler or nanny, I might have recognized the dress only Satan himself would wear (white camouflages the ick beneath like mold on drywall). The instant she turned the corner in the chapel, I would have seen her for what she is—a demon disguised as a wingless angel—and would’ve bolted for the exit, never to look back.
I can’t say I blame it all on my upbringing—there are times when we must make it our own responsibility to remove the veil of ignorance from our eyes—but there’s only so much we can do. My only wish is that I would have removed it sooner…then perhaps my son would still be alive. More than likely we’d be penniless, but at least I’d have him here with me.
‘If only’ is one of few phrases no father should have to say, but my failure to protect him is my deepest regret. Now, my life, a regrettable sham, is defined by those two words: if only he were alive. If only I wasn’t cursed by my wealth. If only I hadn’t married her.
If only she were dead.
Talking about Terry has not been easy, but I get a sense of relief in writing this letter. I can’t remember the last time I spoke his name out loud. My tongue doesn’t seem to have the strength to put those syllables together audibly, but it’s repeated again and again after every other thought produced in my head; as if to remind myself to remember him.
Almost like a dream, I try and recall parts of him that mattered most. The details are fuzzy now, smeared when my eyes are closed, but there was a time when I could describe his every inch. Every mole, scar, wrinkle, finger and toe was accounted for.
Memories, like waves rising in the heart, materialize and store themselves within us in the instant they’re born. At their peak, they touch the sky, and the feeling is it’ll maintain that height forever. It’s euphoric. A sensation of immeasurable joy. Something that cannot be quantified, even by the greatest of poets. But with death, there’s no sustaining its height, and both the gravity of reality and time inevitably send the waves crashing into the sand, fading back into the water, never to be seen again.
Makes me wonder if they were ever even there.
It is difficult, after nearly twenty years, to differentiate memory from dream, especially with a longing heart. But Terry was real. The love felt real but somehow, unrealistic and undeserving—how could a man like me know love? A lying, manipulative leech whose only valuable contribution to the world will be the nutrients my body provides after I’m dead.
I suppose ridding society of my significant other will be my next greatest donation, behind the hefty charitable contributions described in my will.
I don’t believe I’ve mentioned it yet (I probably don’t have to), but I hate her. With every blood cell, molecule, and microscopic fiber that dwells within me. I—can’t—fucking—stand—the—bitch. Which is why I’ve decided that neither of us will be attending the party this evening.
My grief has worn my resolve down to non-existence, and I can’t go another day living while my son is gone. The doctors say I am healthy enough to age gracefully into my eighties, but I don’t care. It’s time for me to go and I plan on taking her to Hell with me. Call it vengeance, retribution, or whatever you want, but there are three bullets in the revolver I’m currently massaging in my other hand.
Two for her—I want to see the look in her eyes after the first one hits her, then I’ll finish the job—and one that will sail between my own and cover the floor with my conscience.
I will not allow her the satisfaction of outliving me. Nor will I allow her to leave this earth peacefully. I will personally revoke her entitlements to my wallet, my happiness, and her own life so that I may go out in control of my own destiny.
Alas, I must sign off. The shower has stopped running and I plan to enjoy my final moments with a cigarette and a double shot of bourbon.
After fifteen years, it’s going to taste better than it ever has.
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