Drake
I put on the suit I’ve kept in my closet for weeks and look at myself in the mirror to make sure everything looks exactly the way it’s supposed to. Then I put on a hat, grab the rope on the counter, and leave my home. Jogging through the woods, I make sure no one sees me as I put on my gloves and make my way to the city.
Being as inconspicuous as possible is my forte, and even if people see me, I know they won’t recognize me. I’m wearing a fake mustache, and combined with the hat and the clothes, I look like a whole different person.
Exactly what I need to get the job done.
I trek the way to my destination on foot. To make sure I can’t be tracked here, I’m not using my car or any other vehicle. When I finally arrive at the house, my heart begins to race, and a wicked smile forms on my lips. I’ve waited so long to be able to do this, and now that the moment has finally arrived … I feel like a kid trick-or-treating on Halloween night.
With big steps, I walk up to the porch and make sure no one’s around before knocking on the door and swiftly hiding behind one of the bushes. The door creaks open, and I hear footsteps.
“Hello?” a sweet voice utters, but I know she’s a devil in sheep’s clothing.
I don’t respond. I wait. And when she turns around to close the door, I lunge inside.
Within a second, I have the rope wrapped around her neck.
Twisting.
Turning.
Her hands grasp at the fiber. Nails desperately trying to claw their way out.
I hiss, “This is it … This is the end.”
“Help …” Her voice is scratchy. The harder I pull, the better it sounds.
“No one’s coming to help you now. You never helped her either.”
“Hyun …?” She gasps, and I know she realizes exactly why I’m here.
“You brought this upon yourself,” I growl into her ear, pulling the rope even tighter.
Her skin breaks underneath the fibers. She struggles so much that it feels empowering. Invigorating.
Exquisite.
Like tasting a fine wine from an age-old bottle.
Or the first rain after a drought.
Or like the smile on your lover’s face after seeing her languish in lasting misery.
My blood rushes with fury and contempt as I pull the string tighter and tighter until there’s no more room for breath. Until her lips stop producing sound. Until her arms grow limp and her body collapses in my arms.
Death.
A bittersweet revenge.
A voice calls from upstairs in a language unfamiliar to me.
I drop her body, the sound of it flopping onto the floor not even fazing me as I walk into the kitchen and grab the biggest butcher’s knife I can find. Then I wait behind the door as the man saunters down the stairs. I hear his footsteps as they barge into the hallway and come to a soundless halt.
I know why he stopped.
He’s witnessing the unraveling of his whole life.
And nothing about it matters because I approach him from behind, reach around, and shove the knife deep into his throat.
He gurgles out loud as he sees the dead body of his wife and knows his own demise is near.
Blood spouts out like a broken faucet, and the man immediately grabs his neck in an attempt to stop the bleeding. He realizes too late that the blade is still stuck in his flesh … and that my hand is holding it in place.
As he stumbles in place, I pull it out and ram it back in below his ribs. Again. And again. Until his body slumps to the floor, convulsing, blood pouring everywhere.
I look down upon my victim and cock my head, wondering what he’s trying to say, but nothing manages to come out from between his lips … except for blood.
I go to my knees beside him, gazing into his soulless eyes, which beg me to relieve him of his pain. But I will do no such thing. Instead, I take my time to wipe the blood off the knife on his shirt, his body jolting up and down from each stroke. I clean the knife thoroughly and tuck it into my pocket.
With grinding teeth, I growl, “This … this is all on you. If only you had loved your daughter more than you did.”
And then I get up and walk out the door, tipping my hat to make sure it covers my face as I get out of there.
***
I take out my prepaid cell phone and dial Greg’s fucking number. When he finally picks up, the first and only thing I say is, “I just fucked her real good. You jealous?”
Then I hang up the phone, take out the chip, crush it, and chuck everything in a bin beside the road.
A smug smile spreads across my lips as I imagine the asshole exploding in rage. Magnificent.
Fifteen minutes later and I’m at his home.
I’ve waited for so long to finally see him burn.
First, I put my gloves back. Then, after I’ve made sure no one’s around, I sneak up under his window and peer inside. I don’t see anyone there, so I jerk the window to see if it’s unlocked. Luckily, it is, and I scoot it open enough to be able to slip through.
With mouse steps, I glide through the house, looking around every corner before I go to the next room. I don’t want to get caught, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s home.
It doesn’t faze me at all.
I go into his kitchen and open the drawers until I find one filled with cutlery and place the knife inside. I rummage in my other pocket and take out the two pictures I made of Hyun, placing them on the counter. One of the notes I typed out is carefully placed beside his laptop sitting on the counter. I open his laptop and open a word file, typing out a few more words that look exactly like the messages I’ve sent to Hyun so far, and save it to his files. Then I take out the audio recorder Hyun used and place it in the drawer beside the knife.
Before I leave, I grab his packet of cigarettes lying on the cabinet in the hallway and light one up. Nothing beats smoking a good cigarette while escaping a motherfucker’s house. Except for a neatly fitting crime scene that’s perfectly shaped for destruction.
***
Hyun
Accompanying Song “My Body” by Perfume Genius
When the doorbell rings and someone slams the door obsessively, I know it’s about to go down.
“Hyun? Open the goddamn door!” It’s him. I knew it. Greg.
With a knot in my stomach, I grab the gun hidden behind the vase, determined not to let him corner me again. It’s time I ended this game of cat and mouse once and for all.
When I was still with him, I always loathed myself for not sticking up for myself. For not fighting him more. For not doing everything I should have, sooner …
But now, finally, I’m coming into my true self. The person I want to be.
And I won’t rely on anyone to save me.
With the gun in my hand, I stalk toward the door and listen.
“YOU FUCKING BITCH, OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard him yell this loud.
He rams the door so hard I can see the wood crack.
“You lying whore, fucking another man. I knew it!”
Right as he’s ranting, I pull open the door and hold up the gun, hoping to shoot him down. However, as I’m aiming and trying to pull the trigger, he manages to ram me like a bull, bulldozing me back inside my own house. He pushes me against the wall, pinning my wrist in a place that makes me drop the gun to the floor.
“Let go!” I scream.
“You fucking bitch, how dare you?!” He’s screaming so loud it’s like my ears pop.
Instinct drives me to protect myself, and as he puts his hand on my throat, I kick him straight in the nuts. I run into my bathroom but not in time to slam the door shut. He chases me, jerking the door from my grip and shoving me against the tiled wall.
I claw at his face, but it’s no use; he won’t stop. With a hand on my wrist and a hand on my mouth, he hisses, “You’re not getting away this time.”
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I do the only thing I can at this point and bite him as hard as I can. Through his flesh … I can taste his blood in my mouth.
He howls at the top of his lungs, pulling away immediately, after which he smacks me so hard I land face-first against the shower wall. However, I use the opportunity to my advantage and grab the showerhead, swiftly pulling the hose over his neck. I pull, hard, tightening the metal wire around his neck until I hear him choke.
“You motherfucker … you’ve hurt me for the last goddamn time,” I growl, putting all my strength into wrapping the hose around his neck.
“Stop …” He gurgles, reaching for the hose.
I twist the knot tighter in response. “No.”
I don’t stop.
Not as he begs me to.
Not as he tries to claw his way back into life.
Not as he breathes his final breath.
His body sinks to the ground and takes me with it. Still clutching the shower hose, I breathe in and out steadily, sweat drops rolling down the back of my neck from my ordeal.
I push his filthy body off me and crawl up from the floor. I don’t look back, not even once before I make my way to the telephone and dial 911.
“This is 911, what’s your emergency?”
I clutch the phone with both hands, my brain going on autopilot. “I killed my husband.”
23.
Accompanying Song: “What Have We Done To Each Other” by Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross
Drake
Two hours after Greg’s murder
From behind a tree, I look at the house through my binoculars. I’m far enough not to draw any attention to myself but close enough to watch the scene unfold. Two ambulances and three police cars arrive one at a time. The first two medics went inside and never came out. Not until five others, including three policemen, join the group.
A medic escorts Hyun out of her house to be checked out in one of the ambulances. They help her clean off the blood and tend to her wounds, placing a soft blanket over her shoulders. She weeps, consoling herself by hugging the blanket close, and it’s at that moment that I feel most ashamed. I should’ve been there. I should be the one to hug her and tell her it’s going to be okay. But I know I can’t. It would ruin everything we fought so hard to achieve.
So I stay and watch as the coroner arrives and goes inside. Minutes later, a body is hauled outside on a stretcher, tucked away into a body bag to mask the damage done by the scorned wife.
I knew she had it in her.
She went through so much suffering, so much pain at his hand. Even after escaping his house, she could not escape his terror. And I knew when I saw her … one day … she would break. And that day was now.
***
A few days later
With a cup of coffee, I sit down on the couch in my cabin and turn on the television. A news report catches my attention, and I stop drinking my coffee to listen to what the reporter has to say.
“A woman murdered her husband after he came into her house and attacked her. Witnesses have stated her husband has been stalking her for the past few weeks after she’d left him in a desperate attempt to save herself. Insiders report the husband having scratch marks all over his face, saying he was suffocated by a shower hose after what appeared to be a struggle. The woman has bruises all over her body and is now at the hospital.”
I take a quick sip from my coffee and put it down on the table, listening carefully.
“Police have found several pieces of evidence suggesting the man was sending her illicit notes, including threats. There’s currently an ongoing investigation at the man’s house as well as the woman’s house. Sources claim several pictures of her taken without her knowledge were found in his home, along with an audio tape of her parents saying they forced her to marry the man. The outrageous story continues as, only minutes ago, the police found two dead bodies in her parents’ home. Whether these are her parents have yet to be confirmed. However, in a statement made to the media, the woman herself claims not to have killed them.”
I pick up my lighter and grab a cigarette, lighting one up as I watch the story unfold.
“This just came in. Police reports show a bloody knife was found at the husband’s house. Whether the blood belongs to the victim’s parents has yet to be verified.”
As I take a drag of my cig and blow out the smoke, I can’t help but smile.
***
Hyun
Social workers.
Police.
Reporters.
Medical people.
They all come and go, asking for the same information over and over again. I repeat my story to all, remembering as much as I can while leaving out as little as possible. It never changes. Not a tiny fleck in my convincing tale.
Every time they talk to me, I swipe away a few tears, sniffling into a handkerchief I’m given before the conversation, like they know I will cry. As any person in my situation, one is expected to be a victim. To act like a victim. To become the victim.
In order to win.
I play my part and smile when they are kind, and suck my lip and form tears in my eyes when they mention the pain I’ve endured. A few nods and distant stares are all that’s needed to make them believe.
The whole world knows my story by now.
I even talked to the press myself, though briefly. I masqueraded as being too weak to feel up to the task of answering all their questions, and it worked in my favor.
After all the questions and the fiddling with my body, I finally learn the outcome of my ordeal from my lawyer. I only listen with half my brain as I stare off into the distance, wondering if the world even realizes what’s unfolding here.
I’ve been declared a victim and will not be facing any charges.
What I did has been labeled an act of self-defense.
I am a woman getting off scot-free with the criminal act of murdering her husband.
I cry tears of joy. They spring into my eyes as if they come naturally. As if I’m not at all miserable inside after what this man has done to me. But I returned the viciousness a thousandfold.
And as the people kiss me on the cheek and congratulate me on my freedom, I feel melancholic. Not in the present.
All I can think about is what the future will hold.
With the press following my every footstep, I go outside. Hidden underneath a dark blanket, I’m trying to hide from the world. But everyone already knows my story. They know it better than I do.
I get into the car and quickly take off the blanket, feeling suffocated by it. Luckily, the tinted windows make it impossible for others to see the true me. Until my lawyer, Lauren Banning, gets into the car with me and asks, “Are you okay?”
“Mmmhmm.” I nod, licking my lips as I stare at the photographers.
“They can’t see you through the glass.”
“I know.”
“Do you want to go home?” she asks.
I nod. “But I’m not staying there.”
“I know,” Lauren says. “You already told me.”
“Right.” I smile at her.
“Where will you be going?”
“I don’t know,” I say, shrugging. “Anywhere but here.”
“I hope it’s some place safe,” she says.
“It is,” I muse, trying not to give her too much info, even though she’s fishing.
“And with someone who’s safe,” she adds.
I ignore that last statement as if I don’t know what she’s talking about.
Of course, rumors floated around that I was having an affair. That I had not one but three boyfriends. That I was a hooker and my husband traded me. All kinds of stories follow a woman who has murdered her husband … because no husband deserves such a cruel death, right? That’s what they want to believe, anyway, but I know the truth.
And I’ve been set free.
They don’t know anything.
They only know what I want them to know.
When the car arrives at my house, my lawyer steps out first while I cover my face with a blanket. So many reporters are outside that the moment I open my door it feels like a tide rolling in from the high seas pushes me back in. But I persist and wade through the crowd with her help until we finally get to my door and go inside.
The clicking sounds of cameras and the yelling reporters cut off like a sudden vacuum in space as she shuts the door and closes all the curtains. My whole body feels numb as I walk through this house again … for the first time since I killed him.
Instinctively, I walk into the bathroom, as if I’m expecting to find his body still lying there on the cold, hard floor, white eyes staring back at me. Of course, it’s a fantasy. There’s nothing here. Absolutely nothing. Not even a tiny hair or a speck of blood.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
Lauren’s sudden voice makes me jolt, and I clear my throat and turn around. “Yeah. I’m fine.” I give her a fake smile. I want nothing more than to get out of here, but I know those reporters would follow me wherever I go, so I have to lay low for now.
“It’s so noisy outside,” I say, trying to change the topic.
“Give it a few days. Once they realize you’re not going to give them any more juicy details, they’ll leave.”
“Right,” I say. “Thanks. For everything.” We shake hands.
“Don’t mention it,” she says. “Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me. Or call.” She chuckles awkwardly.
“Of course.”
She picks up her briefcase and walks toward the door, but before she goes outside, she says, “Be careful, okay?”
I nod, not knowing what to say to such a thing.
Dirty Wife Games Page 14