Broken Promises

Sitting in the afternoon rush hour traffic, the heat builds and the pressure mounts. The everyday working man has had enough. The anxiety has built too high. The mortgage payments, car payments, and savings out the window. A high stress job with low pay, and now a picture with proof of a cheating wife.  On an afternoon when a storm is brewing overhead, he cracks. In a zombie like stage for another hour, he drives home. Over and over in his head he’s reminded of the demons that await him every day after waking up. A laugh, one of hysterics bellows from him, as his focus is set on the street ahead. Manic eyes dart from side to side as he reaches his block. The rain begins to fall steadily as he pulls into the driveway and into the garage. There’s a look on his face of concern, lunacy, hatred and joy all at once. In the garage he stumbles aimlessly around the tools, finally finding a wrench.

                He makes his way inside, nothing but the sound of a television coming from a bedroom. The dog greets him happily at the door, but he is gently brushed aside for more important business. Taking large steps and moving down the hall steadily, his eyes are fixated on the door in front of him. Deep breaths and pants come from him as he tries to maintain his equilibrium. The hall starts spinning, realizing what his actual intentions are makes him weak in the knees, but does not threaten his determination. He regains a proper balance, and enters the bedroom.

                His wife lays motionless on the bed, asleep for an afternoon nap after work. He positions himself over her, watching her keenly. Thoughts race through his mind like horses in the Kentucky Derby, one after another with little time to take it all in. He envisions the pictures of her with the other man, infuriating him, making him bend over in pain. Looking at her enrages him, making his body physically ache. The very thought of her makes him nauseated. He so badly wants her to suffer, yet a part of him wonders if this is all worth it. But the worst side of him takes hold, and with the raise of his hand, he smacks her over the head with the wrench.  The first blow makes him pause, as if all the wind has been knocked out of him. But he goes back again, and again and again. Over and over until he knows she’s in the same pain he is. Blood spatters across the bed and onto the walls. The white pillow- now dark red. The wrench is covered in blood and hair, going back time after time for another hit. No sound is able to escape his mouth, just the same dazed look across his face. The seconds seem to pass like hours until he can hit her no more. The quiet bedroom is now a complete disaster area.

                The room is covered in blood, up to the ceiling and on every wall. The pillow and sheets are soaked, blood collected in folds on the sheets now overflow onto the hard wood floors. The face is now unrecognizable. Dents and gashes in her head distort the shape of her skull, and bits to sharp bone are visible. The face is swollen like a balloon, the cheekbones completely crushed, her front teeth now collected at the back of her throat. Her skin is torn like tissue paper and extremely pale. He sits there alone, thinking about what he has done. The sound of the television interrupts his thoughts and he launches the wrench one last time into the screen, sending an eruption of sparks and smoke into the room.       

                He wraps the body up in the sheets and drags it from the bed. He takes it down the hall and to the back of the house, onto the deck. The rain is pouring down now, thunder and lightning abound. He drags the body down the steps into the backyard. The old shovel from the landscaping project is leaning against the fence; he takes it and begins to dig a hole. The mud is watery and makes it difficult to dig a definite hole, but he continues with a passion. The scene of what happened replays in his head over and over. He knows it happened quickly and wants to remember every moment he can. The rains picks up even more and begins to flood the shallow grave he has dug, but he thinks it’s good enough until tomorrow. He looks at the body in the sheets one last time, and with the last burst of anger he has, smacks it with the shovel five more times.  He drags the corpse into the hole and piles the mud back on, throwing rocks and sod on top. He gets a tarp from the shed and covers it for good measure. He walks groggily up the steps onto the deck, takes a deep breath, and walks inside. His muddy shoe prints showing his path.