It was a silly little mistake. I was trying to nail my husband’s favorite selfie to the wall when the hammer slipped on the backstroke 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, gripped by the curious notion that if I let go, he’d slip under and drown.
My mind raced. I remained rooted in place. 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.
Inspired, I started a journal, writing down why life was better with my husband dead. A few highlights:
The last time he passed stinky beer gas was when he collapsed after I killed him.
No more of him asking for amour at 4 a.m. when I just started my period.
His cadaver keeps me cool on hot nights, now that the utility company turned the power off.
No more monopolizing the remote (once I pried it from his cold, dead hands).
Finally, the strong silent type.
I talk. He listens. Or at least appears to when I adjust his face a certain way.
When we make love now, I’m on top.
Yes, romance blossomed in our secret hideaway. It was like putting a “Do Not Disturb” sign on our entire relationship.
But, as the philosophers say, all good things come to an end. I’m delinquent on rent, the lights have been turned off and the water has stopped running, too.
I’m afraid that our 2nd honeymoon is over. 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 all the cottage cheese, tepid water and toast I’d eaten at my husband’s insistence.
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. They didn’t speak.
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. From his badge, I could see 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. “Your husband will be riding with them. You’re up here,” 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.