THE POOR MAN’S WIFE

A short story

By Ivan King

                Abigail Rose, the poor man’s wife, lay in a hammock with a gun in her hand. Today would be her last day alive. She didn’t care. Nothing else mattered to her at this point—nothing but her inevitable fate.  Now, rocking herself back and forth by the tip of her right toe, she waited patiently for death. The day was perfect for such an occasion; there was a kind breeze blowing that made her bangs move ever so gently from side to side as her long black hair flowed all the way down to the small of her back. High above the canopy of her wooded patio, the sun’s rays had somehow penetrated its way through an army of leaves and limbs, creating an amazing symphony of light and shadow down below. Yes, she contemplated, it was an ideal day to die.

          Truth be told, she had no regrets, and simply smiled as she thought about her tumultuous past. The first thing that came to mind was a recollection of sitting on the grass behind her father’s shed in the old neighborhood when she was only twelve. In front of her sat Jason, the neighbor boy who was so timid and yet had an attractive and mysterious way about him. She remembers vividly how he leaned in. It was her very first kiss. His tender lips were soft as cotton and sweeter than honey.

          Suddenly, she was whisked away to the memory of giving birth to her first child. It was the only one she had ever delivered at home. Her husband was beyond reach, digging a well at the Willises’ farm. She screamed, but no one heard. The phone would be of no help, at least not in the twisted backwoods where they lived; no one would ever get there in time. On that day she realized just how strong a woman really is, for there is no anguish greater than that of giving birth. As she cried and screamed her way through agony and pain, she pushed until her son was finally out. That experience scarred her beyond fixing.

          Then a fresh memory popped in, instantaneously bringing a smile to her face. It was her first kill. She never learned his name, but it didn’t matter. All she knew about him was that he owned a restaurant. Like a kid in a candy store, her face lit up with glee as she recalled the suffering she had caused him. Her favorite part was the tortured look in his eyes as she stabbed him to death. All in all, she’d stabbed him eighteen times, including twice in one eyeball. The loser actually wet himself. To this day, just the thought of it makes her laugh. Her only regret: that he was dead. She wished he were still alive so she could kill him all over again.

          Unexpectedly, her mind jolted back to the task at hand. The promise of a fresh kill gave her some solace. Trying to hold back a tsunami of emotions, she thought about how much she hated the youth of today. They’re so disrespectful. God, how times have changed! The festering disgust gnawed away at her and stung like a blistering sore. A long time ago, in her growing-up years, a man had told her there were two types of people in this world: givers and takers. Rose immediately decided she was going to be the latter. She wasn’t going to let anyone debase her, not under any circumstances. She’d been through too much already, and there comes a time in a person’s life when they have to stand up and say that enough is enough.

          With a deep sigh, she reflected upon her impending death. She thought about its element of sweet revenge, and for a brief second questioned her own mortality and the purpose of it all. In fact, she had been searching for answers her whole life. Had she found some? Of course, but not to the truly important questions. And now more than ever, she wondered if she was good enough to get into heaven. But just as quickly, she decided that if she were to be let in, heaven would lose all credibility. The fate of her soul lay on a different path; of that she was certain. It didn’t matter anyhow, because she didn’t believe in such foolishness. She had learned long ago that heaven was nothing but a fairy tale that was told to weeping children to put a stop to their tears.

Suddenly, she heard a deafening thud coming from inside the house. She knew that sound all too well, for it was a sound that can be made only by a door that’s being kicked frantically by a steel-toed boot. Stoically, she got up and went to answer. In no time at all, she was standing directly in front of the maple door. Pausing momentarily, she released the safety on her husband’s old revolver and prepared herself for what would follow. Then she took a deep breath and held it in. This was it, the moment of truth. Before opening the door for the last time, she reminded herself of her one consolation: She was going out on her own terms…

         

If you would like to find out what happens to the poor man’s wife,

 e-mail me at ivan@ivanking.com.

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