It takes me about fifteen minutes, give or take, to drive home from work. Today, I arrive within eight minutes. Yes, I am meticulous like that; every second of my life counts.
You may wonder why I drive in such a haste to get home. My instinct has been pricking me for about two weeks and today, the feeling becomes too strong to ignore so I close three hours early to my boss’ consternation. Whether he understands the gibberish I mumble as an excuse, I will not know until Monday.
Today is Friday.
Marilyn loves to lounge by the pool in the evenings and read. It is one of those little habits a husband picks up after years of sharing a home with the same woman.
I expect to find her there so I park my car outside the gate and stroll inside. Her car is inside the driveway but a motorbike is parked beside it.
I pause for a moment, and the prickling sensation in my chest returns with such force I inhale deeply through my mouth. Loosing my tie and placing my briefcase on the porch, I walk around the house to the backyard where the pool is.
Am I being ridiculous? For two weeks, I have been noticing subtle changes in Marilyn. She stays longer on the phone and laughs more, sometimes to the point of tears. When I raise an eyebrow in question, she shakes her head to say “never mind” and continues her call. I don't intrude on her privacy and she never intrudes on mine. Now I am beginning to think that may have been a mistake.
As my feet carry me toward the backyard, I stop before reaching it because I hear laughter. Marilyn's laughter but there's another voice aside hers. A man's deep voice, telling a joke that sends my wife into a fit of bellyaching laughter. She never laughs like that when I tell jokes.
For a moment, I feel nothing except the tightness in my chest. I raise my hand to wipe my forehead and my palm comes away damp with sweat.
I take a few steps closer and see they are both in their swim wears. Marilyn is sitting on the egde of the pool while a man sits close, his hand resting on her thigh.
I feel my shirt getting wet and sticking to my body. The look on Marilyn's face makes me feel as though someone is slowly injecting poison into my body.
Poison.
I turn quietly and walk into the house, down the stairs to the basement where my collection of hunting gears lies.
When I return to the backyard, Marilyn sees me. Her eyes widen and her lips part and close, forming words that never come. Whatever she is about to say dies before it reaches her lips as I release an arrow from my bow.
She stares at the man’s body lying on the floor, twitching for a few moments before going still.
I move close to her and gently tuck a strand of her red curls behind her ear. “I'll take care of this, dear wife. Go upstairs and take a bath.”
Marilyn bends to pick her book and trudges into the house without a word.
I hope you enjoyed reading this short piece. It's inspired by the Freewrite #dailyprompt phrase "inject the poison”.
Thank you for visiting my blog.
Image by Ribhav Agrawal from Pixabay