Standing before my wife, her cheeks red with anger like a baboon. She was ‘fed up’ with the way I treat her, I treat her like royalty.
“You b____, how dare you get mad at me?” I snapped, my voice bouncing off the walls. Maybe I can scare her into stopping; she has no right to complain. Her life here is wonderful but she continued.
“Who the hell are you? You are not the man I married! You are just some clone that went horribly wrong! Where’s the man I fell in love with?” her voice was quivering, like she couldn’t find it within herself to be strong. “I am leaving you, Adam.”
In disbelief I look at the door. But to my surprise I see three bags resting on the wall to the right of it. “You are not leaving me Ashley! You are staying here and we are going to be happy,” I growled through my clenched teeth. I could feel them grinding against each other. I draw back my hand behind my shoulder, a perfect ninety degree angle. She looks at me, tilts her head, her eyebrows raised.
“Don’t you dare look at me like that!” I roared, launching my hand forward. Feeling it impact her face, her jaw crunching like empty soda cans. She falls to her knees, bent over and sobbing. I see red drops decorating the floor, falling from her mouth.
“You’re a monster... And I see that now.” She said each word between a desperate gasp for precious air. Mascara is running down her face like black paint, her nails digging into the carpet as if it were my flesh. She’s still staring at me! Why won’t she stop? I see her eyes have shifted to the door, slowly, hoping that I wouldn’t notice her change in decision. But unfortunately for her I did. She jumped to her feet and tried darting towards the door, nearly tripping on the carpet. When her fingers brush the doorknob I wrap my arm around her stomach, tossing her up in the air and having her land on my shoulder.
I start walking to the guest room, the room closest to me. I throw her in, she rolls and hits her forehead on the bed. Just as she looks up at me, with blood leaving trails down her face I close the door. It slams shut like a prison cell. I lock it but I know that won’t keep her in. I bolt into the garage, grab a rope and run back. I tie the rope onto the door handle and then onto the one across the hall so that if she tried to pull the door open, it isn’t going to work.
I walk away and go into the living room. I turn on the TV, rising to volume to 67. I begin pacing, my feet dragging on the carpet; I’m creating my own electricity. Who am I? How dare she talk to me that way? She is my wife, not a man. I was right to hit her; I hit her because she stepped out of line. There is no way she is leaving me. I had to put her back in her place. Making her taste her own blood always works, why didn’t it work this time? She deserved it. I should have gotten her curling iron and pressed it to the side of her face, which would be a permanent reminder of where she stands in this world. She is beneath me, and beneath every other man.
I can hear her screaming and pulling on the door. The rope only moves slightly. Since she can’t open the door she proceeds to banging the door with her closed fists like a gorilla. I think she is talking to me but because of the thick wooden entrance, I can only make out some of it.
“Son of a b____... to hell.... Monster.... go... jail,” her voice is muffled like she has a cloth over her mouth.
I waited for a few minutes because she went completely silent. Click. Oh s___! Not the window! I sprint into the room, wiping the door open. The handle is now embedded into the wall like a meteor that has crashed onto the earth. I look up from the wall and see her with one leg out of the window, she was trying to escape. I clasp my hands onto her shoulders and launch her back into the room. Before I shut the window she desperately tries calling for help so I punch her in the throat. She lays on the ground thrashing. Her hands at her throat while she takes in ragged breaths. While she is down and can’t fight back I grab a fist full of her hair and drag her into the windowless bathroom. This way she can’t escape. The other men wouldn’t understand what she is like. They wouldn’t take care of her properly. She needs me to take care of her. Her mouth is squished closed, her lips
pursed like she has just eaten a lemon. But she isn’t yelling. Oh good, maybe she has finally learned.
I check the room before closing her in again to make sure that there is nothing in there that she can hurt herself with. Nothing, perfect. Then I push her with my foot out of the way of the closing door and sitting in front of it. I wouldn’t want to hurt my baby. I will just wait long enough for her to fall asleep and calm down before I go in and carry her to bed so that she can sleep it off.
After waiting for a few minutes I hear something smash inside the bathroom, but I am sure she is fine. She probably just hit her hand off the wall really hard. She continues to act up. How am I supposed to be nice to her when she is acting like this?
I bang my fist on the door and shout, “Shut up!” and my voice bounces off the walls.
She was instantly silent. I sat on the floor in front of the door for half an hour while waiting to make sure that she was fast asleep. I stood up and saw that the carpet and my pants are soaked in blood. It reeks of copper and salt. I open the door to find Ashley lying on the floor of the bathroom, her arms lying out above her head. The mirror of the cabinet is smashed to pieces and her wrists have jagged things sticking out of them and there is glass everywhere, coated in the red liquid that was her life. I kneel in front of her begging for her to be okay.
“Ashley, sweetheart... are you okay? Please be okay. Baby, I love you. Please say something. Honey?” No response. She just laid there. Her eyes open and staring blankly at nothing.
I bend over to pick up one of the pieces and see my face in the red tinted shard of mirror. Holy shit... That’s who I am. I’m a murderer.