I never thought I would want to kill my wife. Yes, the thought had crept into my mind previously, but it was only a fleeting thought. That’s when there was still hope. As I sit here now, I know there is no hope. She is a shell of the woman I once loved, and I can’t stand it. Over the last two years, she has declined; a husk of the loving mother our son remembers. I have even started to avoid her. Once the cold heart of depression was warmed by the soft embrace of acceptance, she was lost.
It’s been months since she has spoken to Jimmy. Our son. That’s probably for the best… Last time she talked to him, there was more profanity and insults than anything. He is twenty-six now and lives three states over. He is supposed to visit tomorrow for a few days. As always, I’m sure he will be disappointed with his mother’s condition. Thinking of the sadness in his face every time he sees her blurs my eyes.
God, I hate this.
I wipe my eyes and take a long pull of the dark liquor I have in front of me. Slamming the glass, I grab the revolver and the bottle. My rusty vertebrae creak one at a time into place as I stand.
Staggering towards the stairs, I catch glimpses of our life together—family photos from years past, trinkets collected from various places. I stop in front of a glass cabinet filled with small ceramic and porcelain babies. She would fuss over these stupid things for hours. Memories swim through my numb mind as I trade the gun for one funny little boy wearing a blue hat sideways.
We had spent the weekend in St. Louis, where she had found a little shop. After an eternity, she found the one she wanted, only realizing she had forgotten her purse.
“Oh, honey, I love it, please.”
“You want me to run three blocks in the rain for that?”
“It’s vintage, and I don’t have this one,” she said.
If she hadn’t said the last comment with her bottom lip out past her nose, I would have stayed dry. That’s the day I fell in love with her. But now I am standing here, without her, just this silly statue. I take another pull from the bottle. The small boy stares back at me. Mocking me with his stupid grin. Anger wells inside of me, and I throw the ceramic baby across the room, shattering a mirror. I see my fragmented face full of pain and anger, and it fuels my rage further. Spinning, I grab the banister to save myself from falling. A memory flashes through my mind of when she told me to just leave if I couldn’t handle it. She stood in this very spot. Hollow eyes and spindle legs. So weak from the drugs, she could hardly stand, but the venom in her voice was toxic. That was eight months ago. Righting myself, I retrieve the gun.
Halfway up the stairs, I see a younger version of myself with my arm around a beautiful brunette in a flowing white gown. My head swims, and I take a knee. A war of love and hate rages in my chest, being instigated by guilt and convinced by duty. Violent like white heat, it racks me into a cold sweat. I begin to weep.
I try to recall memories of our life together. Each of them is slowly being swallowed by new ones. Horrible ones filled with bags of piss and words of hate. Ones with fear and uncertainty, empty, lost.
No! I won’t lose them, I won’t let these things take over, I won’t lose her memory, too.
After a few moments, I take two long swallows. Pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes, and with my lips pressed tight to my teeth, nostrils flared, I continue up the stairs.
Pausing as another picture catches my eye. This one is of Jimmy. He is standing in a football uniform two sizes too big. A giant toothy grin takes up half his face. Staring at the picture, I finish the bottle and let it slip from my hand.
“I’m sorry! I have no choice, can’t you see?” I yell, ripping the picture off the wall, and throwing it down the stairs. Glass smashes everywhere, ramping my anger back to a ten. Wiping the snot on the back of my hand, I turn back upstairs.
Just outside the bedroom door, I can hear the white noise of the humidifier. I know she will be asleep; that’s all she does. My hand tightens around the gun as I slip quietly through the door. Stale breath and body odor assault my nose. Stillness engulfs me like a mad mood, and my skin prickles.
Resisting the urge to gag, I make my way over to the bedside. IV bags and clear tubes surround her like an alien sea creature. She lies there like a lump. A slow rhythmic beep echoes through the room. Her pale skin glows like a specter in the ambient light. She doesn’t even know I’m here. All that I do for her. Never a thank you. Never even a fuckin’ smile. I think of the way she has robbed me and our son. How she has taken this life and turned it into a toxic soup I am forced to eat daily. Someplace in my sober mind, I know it’s not entirely her fault, but it feels that way; it feels like she chose to leave us, like she quit. Swaying above her, I feel the pistol in my hand. It feels heavy and foreign, but as I put cold steel to flesh, it feels like home.
I can feel my heart beating hard in my chest. My breath is coming in short, quick fits. My vision is reduced to pinpoints as tears run down my face. Sweat covers my forehead.
I whisper one final I love you. Then, in one swift move, I kill the power to the machine that she has clung to for the past eighteen months and pull the trigger.
