I highly recommend you read part one of my short story, Spite, before reading this one! You can find the first part by clicking here!
***Warning: Sexual Content, Suggestive Violence, & Strong Language
Spite (Part 2)
He deserves everything coming to him.
I’ve been a patient wife—attentive, dutiful, elegant, poised—committed to the promises made to God and him. Have I been perfect? No. Impossible. Marriage requires controlled repression of natural urges, denying the body its need to fulfill instinctual desires. I, an animal, a lioness, had to hunt, had to prey to satisfy my insatiable hunger.
For I ached, not with lust, but a vampiric thirst for retribution. Carnal, flesh-driven cravings are not of God, but vengeance is. The Old Testament and Revelations are clear on this, and I’m closer to Him for acting in His image. I will be even closer by tonight’s end if all goes according to plan.
Let it be known that loving my husband was never easy. I did though, in a showing of great resilience, love him. I had to. A choice was made and the agreement was signed, promising for better or worse and ‘til death do us part. Better lasted two days into our honeymoon and was virtually unfound during the remainder of our union, making the worst worse than the deepest circle of Hell where not even the idea of happiness exists. Some couples are capable of finding balance between the two vows, but our scale had a pinch of sand in one pan and a brick of lead in the other.
I’ve finally had enough. The tilt must return to level. By death we shall part; by his death, we shall.
When I was young, I had known little in terms of love. That is, until I met a charming, handsome man whom—although I didn’t know it at the time—would steal my heart and keep it as his and his alone. He had the strength of a working man, an abundance of throbbing vigor coursing through his teenage body, and a rare perspective on a world unimaginable in the minds of my affluent peers. Listening to him while sweat traced the lines down the rigid definition of his physique was like listening to the gentle sounds of waves plopping against the pier at sunset, seagulls cawing in the near-distance, and the murmur of passerby buzzing with melodramatic activity as echoes of children’s laughter faded into the land beyond the sea. His words were their own form of art, scenery for the ears. When he spoke, the wonders of the universe expanded and were painted against my consciousness.
I knew love then. Real love. But I was nothing more than a grown child, infantile and infatuated with cartoon fantasies of castles, servants, shimmering dresses and tiaras. That’s where love alone fell short and is when the so-called ‘man’ known as my husband came in to fill the void my empty-pocketed Romeo proved incapable of filling. He too was handsome and charming in his own right, promising security, extravagance, and a life a cut above what the majority experience, but my heart did nothing. It did not produce one pulse for him until he opened his wallet. Oh, how I tingled when he removed that old platinum credit card from the front slot and slowly slid it up and down the machine’s tight opening. I convinced myself that this sensation was love too; an exciting, moist version of it.
Want and greed, when strong enough, are easily mistaken for love. Those two devils replace it with the temporary joys of expedience.
The first time I caught the bastard cheating was the second evening of our honeymoon. He thought I had passed out after having too many daiquiris, but I was faking it. I knew he had intentions beyond seeing shows and gambling in Vegas, it was merely a matter of following him to discover what those intentions were. Right outside the strip near the county line is a ranch where one can lease a bunny for playtime. An hour later, the little bunny was released to frolic in a field of dicks while my husband stumbled back to the hotel with an undeserved sense of accomplishment. He strolled with his hands in his pockets as if his little breakfast sausage had just conquered the world; no regret, no remorse breaking his stride.
Was I mad? Not for that instance. I knew he was cheating on me prior to the wedding, and I foresaw his faithless actions. Predictably, men of his wealth and stature aren’t expected to stay monogamous until commitment reaches its ultimate peak: legal binding. Even then, I anticipated a transitioning period. I figured it would take time for him to break his bachelor habits and settle in to being the husband God intended for me.
So I did what any good wife in my position—trust fund running low, no value as a mother (yet), not yet in his will—would do: I turned a blind eye. It’s not like I hadn’t done it before, and I had developed a plan to nudge him along the right path. We started going to church every Sunday, and I kept hinting at how unfulfilling life was without a baby. He told me he wanted to wait a few years but anytime he was sober enough to get his limp dick halfway excited for me, I used it as an opportunity to hurry the process along. Silly how he trusted clumsy old me to swallow a pill that seemed determined to flush itself down the toilet, every morning.
A hiccup arose when I concluded his white horses started the race with broken legs. I needed a stallion, not the inbred retards he kept in the stable.
My donor was easy to find. There are no shortage of playboys preying on bored, self-medicated and desperate housewives in my neck of The Hills. All it took was one time, three minutes, to get pregnant. But that’s also all it took for me to cum harder than I ever had in my entire life. It was the vengeance, the evening of the score between his romp in the Vegas hay, that not only tingled but gushed from the lower extremities of my body.
From then on out, it was the only way I could orgasm.
For every affair I heard of from the gossip whores I met weekly for brunch, I countered it with two of my own to account for the ones I was unaware of. Gossip spreads faster than herpes amongst those inebriated hussies, which has its benefits but is also why all extra-maritals were paused as soon as I had begun to show. Cheating, while scrutinized harshly yet hypocritically practiced by all, was acceptable unless one was with child. Sleeping around comes with risks, sometimes mortal depending on who it’s with, and the wives’ only unbreakable taboo is putting an unborn child in danger.
Abortion is quietly permissible and not at all uncommon. No one discussed the topic out loud. It’s the only conversation piece we keep between God and ourselves.
When the boy was born, I saw the impossible. He had his father’s dark eyes, thin smile, and a head covered in jet-black hair. Multiple off-the-record paternity tests were provided by one of the many doctors who frequented my bed, but my husband was not the father. Neither was my first donor, as I assumed. After years of searching for answers I’d never find, only one conclusion could be made. I didn’t want to believe it, but I had to.
I played along with the boy for years, pretending to accept him as my own, but I kept him at arm’s length within my heart. He was my son by association only, and he could not be trusted. Heavy suspicion was applied to both males residing in my house. A father and his son are similar to atoms—useless apart, but when scheming together, competitive outliers are banished and the bond forged is unbreakable. My tepid attempts at destroying it failed miserably, and I thought their relationship to be indestructible. The glue was provided by my husband; the only credit I can give him as a man was his ability to be a decent father (despite setting a horrendous example for his son).
One night, something broke inside of me. An unspeakable evil spilled out from the depths of my being, forgoing all motherly instincts and scaring away hesitation and apprehension. I could barely breathe; it was so suffocating. How could he cut me out like that! After all I’d done! After all I had sacrificed to be a decent, honorable wife to him! The sensation boiled until it spilled over. I let it wash over me and I felt, for the first time, something stronger and more potent than love and vengeance combined.
With my newfound sense of self, I set forth with a new plan.
One cannot kill the devil’s spawn as its life must be taken by its own will. As luck would have it, the boy succumbed to his own deviance. There is speculation as to my involvement but nothing can be linked to me directly. When he asked for a rope, I provided it under the assumption its use was for climbing or playing tug-of war with friends. As for him being pumped full of Valiums, well, they made my life much easier. A domicile child is a well-behaved child. Surprisingly, the police didn’t question me further when I explained my pill bottles had gone missing a few days prior to the accident. I also knew of the boy’s love for masochistic dirty movies, but what kind of mother would I have been to deprive a young lad from exploring the curiosities of growing up?
My husband grieves ‘til this day, but watching the boy commit his own fatality left me unsatisfied. I wanted more. I needed more. He had to pay for leaving me out. He had to pay for causing the negligence which led to his son’s death.
I continued my pursuit of vengeance in the years to come, but nothing was able to satisfy me. My faucet was turned off and now all it does is drip. My sex life was unfulfilling no matter how many men I courted, and I came close only twice since the boy was buried. The first near miss occurred when my husband awoke to period blood smeared across his face and pillow that I wrote off as a nosebleed. The second occasion provided immense build-up—the way his tongue picked away at the leftover crust caked to my lips like slowly peeling away a temporary tattoo—but it ultimately led to disappointment.
Perhaps this is my punishment for allowing evil to take control of me.
Tonight might be my last chance to relieve my frustration. Otherwise, God allows orgasms in heaven, doesn’t he?
Unfortunately, this letter must come to its conclusion. My idiot husband still thinks I’m in the shower, but I don’t have much time until he barges in, impatiently bitching about how late we’ll be to whatever bullshit event he plans to drag me to. As I write this, my Romeo awaits beneath my marital bed, silent, and ready for my signal. The money is accounted for, enough to live a modest life abroad. The car downstairs is waiting and my plane, private, leaves in exactly one hour.
The Lord tells us not to hate. I have tried all I can not to, but to free myself of hate I must free myself of my husband. I will continue to hate as long as he is alive. But once my final act of retribution is complete, all will be forgiven. I will be free to start clean, anew in my Savior’s eyes.
Goodbye to all those who know me. I did what had to be done.
You may not forgive me, but God will.
The End (for now)!
Before You Go!
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