Dear Anna

by Katie Blanchard

  I look over the parking lot and find a couple kissing on a nearby bench. I drive off to give them privacy, praying they aren’t another lousy pair of cheaters.

  Anna wants me to overdose, and John seems disappointed that I haven’t done it. I mean nothing ─ nothing to no one. They couldn’t even spare humanity for my mother’s demise, so I won’t spare any for theirs. It clicks in my head what I need to do. It’s the only thing that’s left.

  I will kill them

  I will kill Anna and John.

  Twenty-Four

  “I’m so sorry, Maggie, I wish that I could stay,” I start.

  “Wish you could stay? Wait, why are you quitting?” Now is the time to spill the beans; the more people that know the character traits of my husband the better character witnesses I will have to account for the evil man he is.

  “I’m sorry.” I start to cry. “My husband won’t let me have a job. I was coming here in secret, and he found out, now I need to quit.”

  Maggie grabs ahold of me in a tight embrace. “Oh, darling.” She doesn’t know what to say.

  “I don’t know what to do.” I know what I need to do. It’s the only way out of the wall they’ve cornered me in ─ take John and Anna away from the world.

  “You always have a safe space here.” I like Maggie, I honestly do, but I can tell this is out of her depth. She’s not Jane. Jane feels more like a ride-or-die kind of girl. When I said that I needed to quit, she asked me what my plan was to get back at John.

  “Thank you, Maggie. Sincerely. I’ll be alright.” I squeeze her back and make to leave. “I do need to get going. Perhaps John is right; this isn’t a good idea right now when I’m still recovering mentally from my mother’s passing.”

  “Oh.” She’s stunned. “I hadn’t realized, dear. I’m so sorry for your loss. You were easily becoming the best employee I ever had. You changed my mind about you.”

  “Thank you. Goodbye, Maggie.”

  Without John, I proved myself to be capable of holding my own. I am not the weak woman he has dedicated years to impose upon me. I was beginning to show it to myself when he once again grabbed it from my reach. I won’t stop now and go back to being oppressed under his thumb.

  Maggie waves. Her new favorite employee has a bully husband, and she’s mentally unstable; it’s too much to handle. I head from Maggie’s store to Dr. Janson’s office. Much to John’s dismay, I was about to get a whole lot better and go down in dosage instead of up.

  When I come into the office, I smile at the receptionist, and it takes her by surprise. I’m not usually this cheery. Changing your direction in a plan can have that effect on you, plotting to rid yourself of your worst demons makes your steps lighter. I wanted to skip, but I fear to be too obvious.

  “Hello, Helen.” My smile never fades.

  “Well, hello, Medeia. How are you?”

  “I’m wonderful. I’m a little early, just going to sit and read a magazine.” I point toward the chair in the corner.

  “Oh, he’s ready for you whenever you are.” She beams.

  “Oh, perfect. Thank you.” I tap on her desk and make my way through the door leading to the hallway taking me to my new future.

  Today is going to be the start of a new Medeia, one that John will lose control of, but I plan to do it the same way he took it from me—deliberate and without his knowledge. By the time he realizes that the power has slipped through his fingers, it’ll be too late for him to gain it back.

  I rap three times on the door to alert Dr. Janson that I’m here before walking in and shutting it behind me.

  “Hello, Les.” I smile, and it has the same effect on him as the receptionist.

  “Hello, Medeia. You look well.” He scrunches his eyebrows up in surprise.

  “I feel well, Les.” I pop down on the couch and bounce a bit. “I tried something new.”

  “That is?” He grabs a pencil from his desk and moves to sit next to me in his usual lounge chair.

  “I went to the gym.” I smile. “And guess what else?” I lean in and look left and right with mock conspiracy. He leans in and plays along, happy to see a good mood returning.

  “What?” he whispers.

  “I made a friend.” I smile again. “An actual friend, Les. Do you know how long it has been since I have hung out with anyone but my husband? Since my mother died. I either hung out with my mother or my husband. And now I have a friend!”

  Les’s laughter is contagious, and I join in. “Why has it been so long since you had a friend?”

  “Oh, John doesn’t let me have friends that he doesn’t approve of first.” I wave my hand as if it’s no big deal, but I know how sharp Les is and he didn’t miss my confession. “I’m keeping Jane a secret. He’s already made me quit the job; I don’t want him to make me quit a friend, as well.”

  Les’s laughter stops dead, and his face falls into a deep sadness.

  “He’s always worried about someone trying to infiltrate his company through me, so if he doesn’t know the people, I’m not allowed to hang out with them.” I shrug. It’s my life, and I act as calmly as I have let myself be about it for the last ten years of my life.

  “That doesn’t sound right.” He grabs his notepad from the table and jots a few things down.

  “I quit today.” I change the subject. I need for those notes to hold a lot of things─ I have no time to waste.

  “How does that make you feel?” I see Les scribbling notes on his pad between the scrunched eyebrows that cause worry lines of age to appear on his forehead.

  “Well...” I scrunch my eyebrows in comparison and wonder how deep the lines in my forehead area. “I’m not happy about it.”

  “Where were you working?”

  “Mugs and Books.”

  “Was that a career for you?” The question feels stupid leaving his lips, and I can tell it tasted terrible.

  “No, but it was a lot of fun, and I was feeling stronger. I didn’t know that was wrong.”

  “It’s not.” It’s the first time I watch contention take place between Les and me. He will make a great character witness, as will his notes.

  I fluff the throw pillow next to me. “Can we talk about lowering my medication, please? I don’t like the increase.”

  “Uh, certainly. Do you feel these extra things you’ve been doing have helped improve your mood?” I can tell there are more questions that Dr. Janson wants to ask.

  “Well, I was understandably sad about having to quit my job, but I realize now that getting out of the house was the main boost in my mood. So long as I continue to branch out and meet people, I think I can maintain a good mood. Then I want to get off the medication eventually.”

  “It’s a fabulous idea, Medeia. But you just came in upset the other day.”

  “Les, can I be honest with you?” I perk up on the couch.

  “I had hoped that’s what you always were.” I nod.

  “Blunt. Blunt is a better word.” I decide.

  “Okay. Be blunt.”

  “I felt an emotion fiercely the other day, and I didn’t sulk. I didn’t hide it, swallow it up until I took a shower where I could cry. I let myself feel it. I never did that before, and I feel like that’s an improvement. Don’t you?”

  “It is Medeia.” He agrees.

  “I knew to come to you that day.”

  “Yes, you did.” He places his pen to his lips.

  “Everyone has sad days like that. The emotion isn’t saved only for the medically diagnosed people. Sadness doesn’t discriminate.”

  “Yes. That’s also true.” Les bites his lip and flips through some notes of mine.

  “So?” I tilt my head.

  “Let’s lower your dosage.” He smiles.

  “Wonderful. I can’t wait to tell John.”

  Medeia’s Journal

  Dear Anna,

  Allow me to introduce myself.

  I’m a smart bitch from the streets, not a doll in a Versace dress. That’s the ro
le that I’ve been playing. I have done a lot of horrible things to obtain money in my life. Killing you and John won’t even come close to the worst.

  I have covered up my father’s crimes just so my family could have groceries for a week. A week. That’s all the money it took to motivate my father to mug someone. He even hurt a man so severely that he died three days later. Just for enough cash to buy one bottle of gin. That’s it.

  Don’t be fooled by what you see. I’m not a dumb trophy wife.

  Twenty-Five

  “Isn’t it great, honey? Dr. Janson is going to start decreasing my medication. I don’t know if it’s the gym or the other things he’s suggested I try, but I am feeling so much better these days.” My shoulders can’t help but do a happy shimmy.

  John drops his spoon with a sudden clang. “He said what? Are you sure?” John pushes his bowl away; he’s lost his appetite.

  “Right? I was as shocked as you at first.” I dive into my soup. Delicious. “But, it’s wonderful news, babe. I’m on the mend.”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full like that,” he scolds.

  “Oh, honey.” I wave him off. You can’t break my mood, John.

  “I think you should get a second opinion about that.” He’s grasping for control, trying to clasp his greedy hands around it. This is the first time he’s felt me have the upper hand. He doesn’t know that I realize what position I’m in. He still thinks there’s time to convince me to crawl back under his thumb.

  “You said Dr. Janson was the most qualified therapist there is when I needed to start going to one. I don’t understand.” I tilt my head like a dog begging for answers.

  “He is. I mean, yes, yes, he’s qualified. This is a huge step, though; that’s all.” A nervous giggle passes my husband’s lips, and I record the sound to memory.

  “Well, John, with situational depression you’re not meant to stay on medication forever.”

  He nods along. He doesn’t have time to plot his next move.

  “Do you think I’m crazy, John?”

  “No.” It’s his immediate response, but the second it leaves his lips, I can tell he regrets it. Telling me, I’m not crazy doesn’t help to convince me later that I am. “I think you are in a delicate state, though. I want to know that you won’t crash like that again. I hated seeing you so out of it in the hospital, babe. It was scary.” With clear eyes, I see John’s calculating ways to play on my emotions. There’s even a quick, instinctive urge in my chest to cave to him, but I resist because my heart won’t drive my life anymore, and neither will John.

  “I feel stronger now than I ever have, babe.” I clear my bowl and his from the table, walking back to the kitchen for the evening dishes, smiling at the dumbfounded look on my husband’s face. “Don’t worry about me.” Worry about your girlfriend.

  JOHN DOESN’T TAKE THE news of my decrease in medication well. The next three days he brews on it, his agitation growing because he can’t find a way to make me spin around the drain. With less medication in my system, the fog begins to lift. As my mind grows stronger, so does my will to see John pay for those wasted years.

  I’m sitting in a lounge chair in the sunroom reflecting on the years under John’s rule. It’s a new meditation form for me; it brings me focus every morning while I watch the day come to life before me. There’s no chance for positivity in our relationship, so I let the lousy parts fuel my will to push forward in the plan. I’ve stayed longer this morning, chancing to entertain myself with visions of John and Anna’s murder and how I’ll accomplish it.

  I hear a slam of the front door.

  “John?” I call out. “Is that you, honey?” Every time I use an endearment toward him, I think about washing my mouth out with a bathroom cleaner.

  There’s no reply, so I unfold my legs and set my now-cold coffee down to investigate. It’s only ten in the morning; he’s back awful early from work. I find John in his office, briefcase dropped on the floor and the drawer containing the gin open. My husband throws his legs on top of the desk and goes to pour himself a glass of gin before deciding to hell with the glass, letting it shatter on the floor with a simple flick of his wrist. He chugs straight from the bottle.

  “John,” I scold.

  “What?” he seethes.

  “I bought you those glasses.” I point to the shattered pieces of thick etched glass on the floor. John’s answer is an evil laugh as he tosses back another gulp of gin.

  “You bought them for me? You don’t buy anything. It’s my money.” He leans over his desk toward me. It’s clear he already downed his reservoir of gin in his office at work before coming home. Why couldn’t he have just wrecked his car and died? I match him. I am tired of his shit.

  “Yes. I bought them for you when I was allowed a job during our engagement.” I lean forward on the desk and get into his face. I have the power now. I will kill you and your girlfriend.

  “So...” He leans back. “This is the warm reception I get coming home today?” His left arm swirls the air, while his right clasps the bottle.

  “Why are you home so early, dear?” I stand straight up. I want John to feel small under my glare.

  “I finally smacked the smug look off that asshole, Kalen.” He lies back in the chair and closes his eyes in meditation.

  “You did what?” I shout.

  “He had it coming.” He flings his eyes open. “The police, however...”

  “The police?” I screech and start pacing the floor in front of his desk.

  “God, Medeia, you’re so annoying.” He slams the rest of the gin down.

  “What did the police say?” I’m anxious, no need to pretend.

  “Asked him if he wanted to press charges. Is there any more gin in this house?”

  I look into his glazed eyes. John won’t remember anything tomorrow. “Does he?” I ask.

  “Does who?” John’s mouth is nothing but lax and slurring.

  “Does Kalen want to press charges against you?” Drunk John is exasperating.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Where’s the gin?”

  “You drank it all. Do you want vodka?” I grab the vodka bottle from his cabinet and set it on the desk.

  “Mmm. Vodka.” He twists the cap off with ease and chugs at least a third of the full bottle down in one take.

  “This is bad, John. What happens if he presses charges?” I worry my bottom lip.

  “Jail?” He laughs. “I honestly don’t know right now. I think I’m drunk.” He leans back in his chair, and the whole thing tumbles over, and he falls straight on his ass.

  “Dammit!” I scream and leave John to his office and his drink. There’s no sense in trying to get anything from him, not when he’s this obnoxious with alcohol. He’s going to mess up my plans again.

  I stew all day around the house, trying to come up with a counter attack in my head, so John’s possible dance with the law doesn’t ruin my plans. He can’t be dead and in jail at the same time. The idea of John going to jail is attractive.

  Then it hits me.

  The best way to succeed would be to make John the accused. Yes, I’ve been focusing on getting my revenge in the wrong direction this whole time. John doesn’t need to die alongside his beloved Anna; he needs to be the one to kill her. It’s much more satisfying to have John’s name besmirched.

  Every little detail comes flying into my mind like I’ve unlocked something I always could do─ just like my father, I can plan a heinous crime. I have so much foundation to lay to make the case solid. I need to cut down enough on my medication and intercept texts from Anna to create a quarrel between them. I can make it look like she was leaving him.

  I’m so caught up in the planning that I forget all about John in his office until curiosity gets the better of me and I go to check on him. Sure enough, he has at least gained enough consciousness to set his chair back upright, although he can’t manage to put his body in that same position. He’s slumped over his desk, clinging to the next e
mpty bottle of alcohol. The vodka and gin have been tossed to the floor and remain in shards alongside the glass.

  I dart to the front entrance and grab my shoes so that I don’t wind up with a bloody foot. I make a note to tell the housekeeper to do a thorough vacuum in here when she comes this weekend. I’ll do the best I can once I throw John in bed. I’d rather let him stew in here, but the part I need to play to convince a jury and everyone in the world reading the newspaper after Anna’s death. That I was a caring wife, involves acting like I don’t know.

  I remove the bottle from his hand, and this causes John to wake up.

  “No. No, I need that,” he whines and grabs the thin air.

  “It’s empty, John.” I walk over to his side of the desk, careful where I step, and offer my hand to help him up. “Come on; let’s get you to bed.”

  “I need a shower.” It’s all I can do not to throw up. I don’t want to care for John. I don’t want to be his crutch up the stairs. And I surely don’t want to be the one washing him, sponging off his skin soaked from alcohol spills and pores clogged with cigar smoke.

  “John, it can wait until the morning.”

  “Medeia,” he pleads.

  “Let’s see how you do going up the stairs first.” He nods and allows me to pull him up on his unsteady feet. I duck my body underneath his arm, the stench of his body odor clinging to my shirt.

  I want to watch the blood flow out of his throat, but that’s not the prize anymore. They’ll suspect the wife. How could I have ever loved this man? Even when he is cleaned up and put together, he will barely exist as a thin shell of what he’s supposed to be. It’s all a front. Behind his charming smile and well-groomed demeanor at a dinner party is just a serpent covered in scales and slimy skin of sin. He’s no prize to win, I see it now. I used to believe with my whole heart that he was my knight in shining armor, the only man that I needed, the only one worthy. He’d catch me if I fell, care for me, love me, forsake all others. It was a lie. A damn good one that I believed for sixteen years.