I wore a turtle neck so people at work would not remark. I walked outside and the fresh air stirred me. I felt wonderful. I had a stop to make before the office.
At the hospital I brought flowers to Mick. He looked terrible. I smiled and placed them next to him on the bed. He recoiled and I could see the fear in his eyes. He could not say much; he had seventy-two stitches in his tongue. It was swollen so badly that he could only breathe through his nose. Poor guy almost bit it off when he fell. And worse than that! He developed a bit of a hematoma right beneath his skull after he hit his head. What a mess!
“I’ll be back later,” I told him.
And I heard him whimper as I left the room.
I was aware of the necklace beneath my shirt all day during work. My skin felt hot where the necklace was sitting, but there was no pain. I wondered if it was completely beneath my skin yet. I needed to look.
I walked to the ladies room, strangely curious, and slightly dreading what I might find. I lifted my shirt, and saw that the necklace had indeed been almost fully absorbed by my skin. The black threads were forming a thin web over the still-exposed parts, and instead of feeling the dread I was so sure would engulf me, I felt awe. It was beautiful, and it was part of me. The threads had pierced larger and larger areas of my skin, raising welts, causing my flesh to turn a blood scarlet. I leaned in closer to the mirror, and Tabitha walked in.
“Hey Violet, how are…what HAPPENED?” she cried, covering her mouth with her hands.
I did not want her to see this. I did not want anyone to see. So I lied.
“Oh, horrible, right? I had to get this mole removed and they had to take out more than they thought….”
“Oh my GOD, Violet,” she said. “I could have taken you…why didn’t you call me?”
“I’m fine, Tabitha. Really. It looks a lot worse than it is.”
“Honestly, it looks terrible. Please tell me if you need help with anything,” she said.
“I will. Don’t worry.” And I felt bad for a second. She had a genuine look of concern on her face as she walked out, but the last thing I needed was help. I had a mission to accomplish tonight. Suddenly everything became clear as I remembered myself being slapped, kicked, punched and berated, all at the hands of past boyfriends and lovers.
“Off with their heads,” I whispered.
The stroll to the hospital after work was glorious. The leaves were changing, the air was slightly crisp and smelled faintly of cinnamon.
The hospital was very busy that evening, yet when I reached Mick’s floor, it was quiet. His room was dimly lit. The doctor had called me earlier in the day and told me the hematoma in his head was leaking a bit, and the drugs he was on would keep him quiet and still. Didn’t want that hematoma to hemorrhage, right? That’s right doctor…we wouldn’t want that.
He was so quiet lying there. So handsome. I asked him in a whisper why he was such a moron. Mick had no answer for me. I asked him again. I pulled the knife from my purse and sliced his neck from ear to ear. His eyes flew open, but he could not answer. I must have cut his vocal cords. I sliced again, deeper. I may have reached his spinal cord because I could not cut any further. I didn’t think of this when I picked out the knife this morning. My hands were covered with his blood which I could still see pulsing from his throat in jets.
I washed my hands and the knife in the sink in his room, and I left. I didn’t know if he was alive or dead.
I hadn’t even spent 10 minutes in the hospital. The evening was young, and I walked the city as the sun set.
* * *
Several months had passed since the unfortunate murder of Mick. No one had seen anything, and amazingly enough, they had no clues. No one thought for a minute that I was a suspect. In fact, everyone was happy that I had a new boyfriend. Things were blissful for the first few weeks. But lately, he seemed to have a bit of a dark side.
We were strolling in the village one snowy evening in December, looking at all the twinkling lights and decorations, and I noticed an odd little gallery. In the window was a display of portraits from little or unknown artists, and suddenly I knew why my necklace had seemed familiar to me. There, in one of the portraits, my necklace sat around the neck of Anne Boleyn. I peeked in the door to see if the shop was open. Thomas grumbled. I started to walk in and Thomas asked me what I was doing.
“I’m buying a portrait,” I told him.
“Not now,” he said. “I need to be at the office at 6AM tomorrow.”
Thomas was very interested in work. As a successful investment banker, he always looked and acted the part.
“I’ll only be a minute…” I replied.
“I said not now…what are you, deaf?”
I walked into the lovely little gallery despite Thomas’ protests and asked if the portrait of Anne Boleyn was for sale. The owner told me indeed, it was. Although the artist was unknown, the painting was beautiful, and he told me it was rather special. Its title was Execution Day.
I took it home and placed it over my fireplace. It made me think of the old saying, “A woman’s home is her castle.” It was perfect. Thomas did not like it at all. But the queen holds court now, and I won't have to worry about him very much longer.
Also by the Author
100 Unfortunate Days
100 Unfortunate Days is a daily account of a madwoman’s musings. Sometimes surreal and magical, and always dark, read the thoughts that cross our minds but cannot be admitted. This book brings the realization that the mad walk among us—and may BE us.
Praise for 100 Unfortunate Days:
“I can’t say enough how great a read this book is. You will not be disappointed by picking this up.”
“…so eloquently written, so inside the narrator’s mind, that you forget where you start and the book begins. Crowe has crafted a journal of 100 days that can make you laugh, sigh, and frown all in one ‘day’…100 Unfortunate Days reads like the inner-workings of a dream—lyrical, powerful, and full of lessons, if you only know where to find them.”
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