Michael's Wife

Michael hadn't always hated his wife.  I suppose that goes without saying.  Who gets married to someone they hate?  The hatred came slowly, from a 'honey-do' list, and on to little ways of controlling his life.  It could be argued that he was overreacting to a normal marriage, but that's beside the point now, his marriage will never be normal again. 

Michael's hatred eventually turned to blood lust.  He didn't just want her gone, he wanted her dead, and he wanted to be the one to do it.  In time, he plotted a spot for her body in the yard, under a lilac bush, where no one ever went.  It would be easy enough to do at night, as his neighbors on both sides were early sleepers, so he knew no one would see him.  He just had to think of a way to do it.

It was shortly after their ten year anniversary that Michael saw his opportunity.  His wife brought him a screwdriver, asking if he'd hang a picture in their bedroom.  He took the tool and examined it closely.  It was when his wife asked why he was looking at it that his mind crossed that barrier that separates what we want to do and what we do, and he killed her with the screw driver, and then proceeded to hang the picture that she'd asked him to.

Burying her was as easy as he thought it would be.  Arguably, he didn't dig the hole as deep as he should have, but what did it matter?  She was dead, didn't have a job, didn't have a family, and didn't have friends.  It's not like people would come looking for her.  Michael lit a cigarette and chuckled to himself after he put on the last shovelful of dirt.  "It's over," he thought to himself, "She's finally gone."

The depth of the burial started to trouble him over the next few weeks though.  It rained a couple of times, which brought him to the burial site to make certain that nothing of his wife's could be seen.  Eventually, the idea entered his dreams, and he'd go outside to find a hand, or a foot sticking out of the ground, but when he woke up and looked, nothing had changed.

Perhaps the most disturbing of his dreams is when he went to look and saw her face unearthed.  When he checked closer, her eyes flashed open, and he was panting in his bed with sweat pouring down his face.  He began to question his resolve.  Was killing her truly the best idea?  Surely he didn't want her in his life anymore, but this constant worry, these nightmares.  It had to stop, or he'd surely go mad.

Several months after the burial, he decided that his worries would be gone if he simply dug up the body and buried it at a greater depth.  That surely would stop the nightmares.  Once again, in the dark of night, he took his shovel and his lantern out to the lilac bush.  He dug for nearly three hours, but never hit the body.  There was no other lilac bush in his yard, and he had only dug for one hour when he first dug the spot.  Where was she?  His mind raced frantically.  Had someone seen him and dug her up afterward?  Had he dug under a different bush?  No.  He knew no one would have seen him, and he chose the lilac bush deliberately.  Quickly, he filled in the hole and headed toward the house.

That night, the nightmares had increased in horror tenfold.  He no longer saw her buried, but she walked his home, a decomposing zombie that never stopped looking for him.  Always though, he woke in a cold sweat, alone.  Morning finally came.  'Exhausted' barely describes what he felt as he drug himself out of bed.  He was out of plans.  Apparently, her body was no longer in his possession.  Perhaps he'd have to go through court proceedings after all. 

Just as this thought came to him, he heard something stirring downstairs.  His first thought was that he was being robbed, so he stumbled down the stairs as quickly as he could and ran into the kitchen.  What he saw there terrified him more than any group of robbers ever could, because there, at the stove, was the long, curly hair of his wife.  He dared not approach, for fear that she would turn, and it would be another zombie of his dreams.  Finally, she turned, her face exactly as it was before he had defiled it with a screwdriver.  "Michael, come sit down.  I made pancakes."  Her smile was genuine, but that did not ease Michael's mind.  He did as he was told though.

Michael couldn't look at her as he waited at the table for his pancakes.  The scene was not unique, she had made him pancakes every Saturday morning that they had been married, but that was before she had her skull impaled with a screwdriver.

"Do you want butter one them?"  She asked every Saturday morning, even though the answer never changed.  Michael grunted, and she put on the butter.  Just as she always had, she walked them over to the table and set his down in front of him, and then walked with hers to her seat at the table.  "Michael."  His head snapped up from his plate to see her smiling there, "I know what you did to me."  His stomach went empty, and he could feel the blood leave his face.  She took a bite of pancake, chewed slowly, never losing her smile or eye contact, swallowed, and then finished her thought, "It wasn't very nice of you.  All I wanted was a picture hung."  His throat got dry, and her smile got bigger, "I promise I'll never ask you to do that again."  Finally he was able to swallow, but could now see what he figured to be all of her teeth, "But I can promise one more thing, Buddy: I'm never leaving."