“Yes. I imagine no friend that leaves you pacing the house is one that is easily tossed aside.” I raise my eyebrows toward him.
He nods and bounces a beat out on the table before slapping the right hand down and pointing at me. He sets to exit the room.
“I’ll be out tonight,” he claims.
“Okay,” I shout back.
“Hey, Medeia.”
I look over as he hovers backward in the doorway and I exhale an annoyed sigh. “I think you should make a friend. You’d be good at it.” What?
“I’ll try.”
He taps the doorframe and heads out the door with a sad look in his eyes. I throw my head into my hands. Why is he trying to resemble a human again? Is this the universe’s way of telling me that I need to cancel the idea of killing Anna? I don’t want John back. I don’t want Anna living in my house with her smug face. I want her dead. I want him to pay.
Thirty-Two
Curiosity killed the cat. My mother said that to me every time I opened the oven to see what she was making. I couldn’t help but follow John out tonight. Maybe boredom is contagious, but suddenly, after he left, thank-you notes didn’t hold my attention anymore. I had a bigger job to perfect as his wife.
Sure enough, John is sitting outside the warehouse waiting for Anna. She must be late because he keeps opening the car door and walking around it before deciding to get back in. I pop some cashews into my mouth as I sit in my car facing the opposite direction on the road. He’s not looking for my car, so I’m not at all worried about being seen. Still, I park a safe distance away and use my side mirrors to watch what’s going on before I can turn on the app for the cameras inside.
Anna’s car finally pulls up. John jumps out of the vehicle with relief. I cross my fingers that she’ll keep driving and run him over, but she proves herself to be too chicken shit to stop his evil ways. He goes to hold her when she climbs out, and she shoves his arms away. I wait for him to get mad at her for the violent action, but it doesn’t come.
She isn’t you, Medeia. He doesn’t get mad at her like that.
She points to the door inside — she wants privacy for the fight, not in the middle of the parking lot. I laugh and flick on the camera app. I’ve installed a few extra inside the building this week when I came to change the batteries so that I won’t miss anything.
She stops just short of the inside door, refusing to go up to the mattress with him.
“What do you want, John?” she groans.
“I’m sorry, I overreacted. I was an asshole.” His voice is soft and pleading. I imagine that’s what it would sound like if he were begging for his life.
“You called me a whore,” she spits.
Ouch, John. Maybe he does get mad at her as he does me.
“I know, and I feel sick about it.” No, he doesn’t, Anna. He’s a dickhead. He tries to reach out and embrace her again, but she backs away from his advances. I laugh.
“That hurt me, John. You have Medeia at night. I have no one. Thomas was just a friend, and I felt something for him. You weren’t leaving your wife and kept telling me that the plan needed time because it was delicate. What was I supposed to do?” Stop believing married men when they say that they’ll leave their wives when you’ve already spread your legs to them?
“I was wrong. I got angry when I saw you with Thomas. I guess I liked the idea of knowing it was just you and me. I hadn’t thought of Medeia the way you think of Thomas in a long time. It hurt.” I flip the burner phone over, so I don’t see his lying face anymore. Really! Because you got off pretty good the night of the party.
“I’d like it to be just you and me, John.”
I grab the phone and see Anna step forward to his open arms. She’s buying the glittered turd he’s selling.
“I love you, Anna.” John holds her tight.
“What?”
“WHAT?” I scream in the car.
“I do. I love you.” He kisses her forehead. I throw my cashews on the dashboard.
“I love you, John.” They kiss and embrace before heading upstairs to the mattress.
Anna must die. Tomorrow. They’re fucking up the planned motive — I can’t wait.
Medeia’s Journal
Dear Anna,
I hate you. He walked you home tonight, and you two stared at each other like lovesick puppies.
He loves you.
I hate you.
Know that there is a balance in our world, because as strong as his love is for you, my hate will always be the equivalent. I don’t want John. He feels more like your sloppy seconds than my husband, and I’m the one who had him first.
I want revenge. I want freedom. I want what I’m owed for ten years of marriage to that prick.
I need to be ready.
Tomorrow night, you die, dear Anna.
Thirty-Three
I have been awake since three in the morning. The beast inside of me has been stirring for a lot longer. Anna finally took John to her apartment last night, and he didn’t look at her in disgust. He must have a thing for the poor girls. Instead, he told her he wanted to walk her home like a real date. I watched as he kissed her at the entryway to her building.
They’re in love.
If the sight wasn’t enough, the foul mood that John displayed when he got home signaled the shift in seriousness between their relationship and the growing need to rid himself of me.
Like a good wife, I am going to solve that for him tonight.
I stare as he sleeps next to me, unaware of the hate he created, the evil he orchestrated with Anna. His eyelashes flutter as the dream in his mind shifts plot. What kind of man will John be when he wakes up to find his beloved dead underneath him? Are his thoughts preparing him for the task?
I throw my side of the covers off and make my way into the bathroom by way of the closet, touching his line of suits as I go. Which will he wear to court? I close the bathroom door behind me and take note of my appearance in the mirror.
There’s beauty and disgust. I can look at the parts that are becoming my own with joy, the strength in my posture, and the lift in my chin. The hollow look in my eyes comes from John, where he has emptied my soul for his benefit. I tear my burner phone from the pocket of my robe.
On the third ring, Jane answers.
“It’s early,” she whines.
“Want to go shopping tonight?” I whisper and poke at the dull skin around my eyes.
“Okay. You could have asked me at the gym this morning, you know?” She rolls over in her bed, and I hear the shuffling of her pillows.
“It’s not Thursday.”
“I switched shifts this week so that I can go to the gym in the morning now.” I hear her yawn after.
“I’ll see you there.” I hang up. I head back to the closet and take down a pair of workout clothes and put them on. I throw my pajamas on the floor. I’m tired of hiding them in the chest.
“Aren’t you going to pick those up?” John grumbles as he bumps into the doorway coming in.
“Later,” I say. “I’m late for the gym.”
“You wouldn’t need to go if you didn’t shove pastries in your mouth when you’re bored.” He shuts the door, and I advance toward it before stopping cold and flipping the door off. He has become more blatantly rude, no longer hiding the meaning of his words with tact and a smile.
I grab my shoes and run down the steps, and quickly scratch a note out to John that I’ll be shopping this evening and missing dinner. Christmas is only a month and a half away now. He won’t be shocked to find me heading out for sales — he expects it. Another job that’s left for me to do.
I look around the house one more time. This will be the last morning I wake up to go to the gym and see Anna. This will be the last day that John wakes up to see Anna. Who said Mondays were horrible?
I slam the door behind me. It feels good. No wonder John does it. I smile into the dark morning and head off to meet Jane at the treadmills. I’m early, but I c
an’t stay in this house any longer with that man — the devil I married.
“How long have you been here?” Jane stretches her arms above her head and leans forward to touch her toes.
“About a half hour already.” I pop out my earbuds to talk with Jane.
“Why?” She hops on to her treadmill and begins to work the buttons.
“I needed the extra run.” I’m not even panting anymore. I wonder if Anna could outrun me now.
“So, what are we going shopping for tonight?” Jane starts at a slow trot, getting her legs warmed up.
“Christmas.”
“I don’t shop for that until the week before,” she groans.
“Well, you have to come with me. I need to pick out something fabulous for myself from John.” I stare down over the wall at a familiar blonde taking her morning spot at the weights. Jane follows my gaze.
She bursts into a full run, our eyes never leaving Anna. “What time?”
Medeia’s Journal
Dear Anna,
He isn’t worth it. You don’t know him as I do, so listen carefully and with an open mind when I tell you to run. Run away from him as fast as you can. He doesn’t love anyone but himself. He will use you only for as long as you are benefiting him, and even then, he finds a way to be bored with you. In that regard, I guess you are perfect for each other.
He’ll be the death of you. I’ve already died.
There, now I feel like I did my part in giving you a fair chance to survive.
Thirty-Four
When I arrive home, un-showered from the gym and running over the plan with Jane for a couple of hours while doing errands, the last thing I expect to see is my husband’s car. This is far past the time that he should have been at work and too soon for him to be home. I hide the fast food I grabbed for lunch after grocery shopping in my purse before I get out of the car.
I find him in the kitchen bent over his computer, typing.
“Hi, honey. I thought you’d be at work.” I set a small amount of grocery bags down on the countertop and go about putting them away.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Medeia. I took a short day today at the office.” He doesn’t look up but remains hunched into the screen in front of him.
That’s not what disappoints me about you, John.
“I’m just surprised is all.” I put the rest of the produce away in the fridge and fold up my reusable bags and stick them in their designated drawer.
“Oh, your father passed away last week. I guess his drinking finally caught up to him.”
The ice of his voice rolls up my body until my breathing seizes. I don’t turn around, but I imagine he’s smiling at my reaction.
“He what?” I stutter.
“Yeah. Sorry, we missed the funeral. I can give you the details of where he’s buried if you’d like.” He says it as if we missed a movie coming out in theaters, not the death of someone who is partly responsible for my being. Nothing stops his incessant tapping on the keys. I finally turn to face him. Lucifer is looking straight into my soul.
“How long did you know?” My voice is a growl.
“A few days.” He looks back down to his screen and continues as if he told me that the price of pork was higher at the grocery store this week and I missed a sale. “Are you all right?” The reaction to this question piques his curiosity, however.
“Am I all right?” I grip the countertop of the bar opposite of where he’s sitting. “Why did you keep it from me?” I grind my teeth.
“I was only thinking of your mental health, dear. Besides, he killed your mother. I didn’t think it was that important.” He shrugs. I think about all the knives in the slab — my hand aches to grip one.
I grab my heart. The tormenter of my youth is gone, yet I feel no relief because it was my current one who informed me of it.
“Do I need to fetch some of your pills or call an ambulance?” I catch his grin before I nearly black out from the misery, and it pulls me to the light. His cold and calculated words mean to drive me to the edge so that he can use my breakdown to advance the relationship with his girlfriend further. He doesn’t care about the death of anyone unless he can use it to his advantage.
“No. I’m fine.” I place the bread inside the bread box and the cereal into the pantry.
“What?” The typing stops.
“Did you get my note, dear? I’m heading out to do some Christmas shopping soon, and I don’t imagine I’ll be back until late. Don’t wait on me for dinner.” I’m staring at the macaroni box, trying not to let the tears fall. I won’t play into his game.
“As long as you think you’re all right. Remember what he did to your mother, and how you found her in a pool of her blood on the same floor that you learned how to walk on? Geez, I don’t know how I’d be holding up if I were you. Maybe you should lie down; I’ll get you your medicine. Maybe call Dr. Janson?”
“I recall what he did, John. Thank you for reminding me.” I turn and face him. “I’m going to get a shower now, and then I’ll be going out.” I don’t let him respond, and I push the image of my mother’s body aside, replacing it with happy memories instead as I take the stairs two at a time longing for the comfort of the cascading water. I lock the door.
When I get the water hot enough to remind me of hell, I slump onto the tile and place my washcloth in my mouth and clasp around it with both hands so that there is no noise when I scream for my mother. Her body was lying awkwardly on the floor of that damn house. The blood spilled from her head because he couldn’t control his anger. Now, he’s dead, and I feel no redemption for my mother in that fact.
I keep my shower to the minimum time, even though my tears have yet to finish, and I do my makeup in record speed. My eyes don’t look swollen at all as I exit into the closet. There is not a trace of pain for John to poke at.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re all right, Medeia.” John is sitting on the ottoman in the middle of the enormous closet space.
“I’m fine. Do you think your Aunt Mary will like a new shawl? I noticed the one she was wearing at the party was a little frayed at the edges. Possibly I can find something in a similar color and fabric for her.” I grab my black turtleneck and black jeans and slip them on.
“Are you going to go visit his grave?” He keeps pushing.
“No. Are candles too cheap for Grace? I never know what to get her.” I pull a blue cardigan on and search for my new favorite pair of black boots.
“I wonder if your sister or brother came to the funeral? They must be furious at you not to call.” He twirls in the ottoman to face me no matter where I am at in the room. I need to leave so I can breathe. He’s stifling me.
“They don’t know my number. You changed it.” I slip the boots on over my pants and grab a black jacket that allows me to move, going in and out of stores and not getting too hot.
“Still. They know where we live. They could have at least rang the doorbell.”
Before I walk out of the doorway, I jolt back and glare at him. “You told them they were worthless and never to come around, and now you’re surprised that they listened? Really?” I advance toward him, and he dares to look surprised. “You made me agree in front of them that they weren’t to come around anymore because you felt Hank was a thief and Ophelia was no better. You gave me no choice but to shut them out because of your money.”
He tries to refute, but I yank my coat on and dart downstairs, rushing to the kitchen for my purse. I open the garage door and shimmy the bag I have prepared for tonight out of its hiding spot and into the car before John can even make it down the steps.
“Medeia!” I hear him screaming when I shut the driver’s door of my car. I crank the music on the radio. I see him step out of the house and into the garage. I wave as I quickly reverse down the driveway and bolt off down the road.
I want to cut his throat. I want to make him bleed all over the expensive rugs in our house. This is the wrong day to remind me of what you stole, John.
Thirty-Five
The house is the same as I remember, just more rot with age. The grass around the front has grown up to the base of the windows in some spots because my father always loathed doing yard work. The haphazard stairs remain, leading to the wooden front porch, dried with the sun’s strength and neglect of proper maintenance.
This is the house that determined my outcome. In school, it was the thorn that kept me beaten down when I would walk the halls. When I got older, it decided who I thought I deserved in life. Now, it holds power over me of what I’ll soon become. A murderer, just like my father. He killed my mother by shoving her; she lost her footing and hit her head off the edge of the table.
He killed himself with the bottle when they let him off easy — no conviction — condemning him to live out his life sentence here, where it all happened. Waking up and walking the floor stained from her last breaths. She wasn’t significant enough to the world to lock him away. No amount of screams that tore from my body changed the mind of the judge who threw the case out for lack of evidence that it wasn’t just an accident. No matter the cry of his history of violence.
She didn’t matter enough.
I am going to make sure that Anna matters enough to the world that they lock John away for it. I will make her name go down in history so that they don’t forget the pain he caused in this life. My father got his for my mother. A life for a —
My father stumbles in a drunken stupor out onto the porch and tosses some lunch scraps out to the stray cats circling his feet and hollers at them to be patient.
He’s not dead.
I watch like I’m a kid again, as my father puts the drink to his lips and downs an entire beer bottle in a matter of seconds. Still a drunk, but still very much alive. He turns and fails to enter the doorway twice before success is his, and he’s back inside. Back to his second six pack that I imagine is almost gone for the day. He moved on to liquor at nightfall in the later years.
Dear Anna Page 15