All Kinds Of Things Kill

I poisoned his coffee this morning. Not too much – not enough to kill him outright. Just a bit. Just enough to make him feel a little under the weather. Make him sweat a little more than usual, make him run his thick hands over his broad forehead and wonder why his temples throb. I imagined him wandering around his dealership, unable to focus on sales or on laughing with customers.

Tonight, he came home and said he might be coming down with a cold. I cooed and patted his head. I was concerned and sympathetic. I’m very good at that. Very convincing. Then I made him more coffee. With just a tiny bit of poison.

Tomorrow, I’ll poison his coffee again. Just a bit more than before. Nothing dramatic or obvious, nothing to tip him off. Just a tiny bit, just a little bit sicker, that’s all. A natural progression. And I will keep it up, every day a little bit more. Every day his ‘cold’ will get worse. His sales will suffer, his employees will wonder to themselves and each other. He’ll spend most of the day at his desk, rubbing his temples and sweating. Eventually, he won’t be able to work at all. Then the doctor's appointments will begin.

And you might think I’ll be discovered. Surely the doctors will find the poison building up inside him, right? Wrong. I’m very careful. There are poisons that are very difficult to detect. And real-life doctors aren’t like the ones on TV. They aren't brilliant and insightful, putting together complex puzzles of illness with just a few tiny pieces. They just want to prescribe something and get to the next patient. And I’ve found poisons those hacks will never find. I’ve done lots of research. I’ve had lots of time to myself.

So the doctors won’t find it. And we’ll both go to doctor after doctor, each looking more confused than the last as my husband gets sicker and sicker.

And I will look concerned, even afraid. I will hang on the doctors’ every word. I will look at them like a woman looking for water in the desert. Looking for that hint of hope that my husband will be okay. And each morning, coffee with poison. Maybe eventually he won’t be able to stomach coffee and I’ll switch to milk. We’ll see how that plays out.

Eventually he won’t be able to leave the hospital. They’ll prop him up in a bed and monitor him as he slips further and further away. And I know what you’re thinking. Surely the poison will stop. The hospital will provide all his food. My influence will be gone.

Ah, but no.

I will be the devoted wife. I will stay in that room day and night. We will watch TV and talk and try to pretend things are just as they were before he got sick. And I will always be watching for an opportunity. A back turned, a coughing fit, a nurse-aided trip to the bathroom. Then I’ll slip a little bit more into his food, his water, the plastic cup of juice. You’d be amazed what you can accomplish with patience and alert eyes.

Further and further away he’ll slip. And I will dote. And pray. And weep. The doctors will struggle bravely, will confer with each other, will do their best to comfort me without giving too much hope. And my husband will look to me for solace. I will give this to him. You never know who may be watching. I will even stroke his head as brave, stoic tears inch down my face.

And he will try to be strong for me. He will struggle to be brave as the life slowly drains from those hungry eyes of his. Struggle as his breath becomes more and more shallow. Struggle as his limbs get weaker and weaker.

And finally, finally, he will die.

And I will be there as he does. I will smile bravely and hold his hand as he slips away. The machines that beep along with his heart will drone. The doctors will pull me away, will confer with each other, will determine the time of death.

Then, the funeral. I will stand with family and friends, weeping and dressed in black. I will draw in ragged breaths and tell everyone I'm doing fine, considering. The priest will relate my husband's life, his good deeds. He will have to skip some things, but I will nod as though it's all true. Maybe it will even rain. How dramatic that will be. The angry sky weeping in rage at the injustice done. It will set a very convincing tone.

I will hold a flower, a rose most likely, in my trembling hands. I will place it on the casket – as the wife, my flower will go first. Then I will watch as the thick straps and pulleys lower the casket into the ground.

The wake will follow. Pot luck and sympathy. I will nod as people pat their condolences onto my shoulders. I will eat two plates of food, tops. I will listen as people tell stories about my husband and ask how I'm holding up. I will wait patiently through all this.

Then I will no doubt have guests at home. It will be like the wake, only smaller and more bothersome. I will have to assure them several times before they will leave. But I will insist, and they will understand. And they will leave.

I will let exactly one hour pass. To be sure everyone has truly gone. It will be dark by then. I will get into my car and drive.

Hopefully the cemetery gate will be unlocked. It should be. The keepers usually don't bother to lock it. I've checked a few times, preparing. Assuming it is unlocked, I will let myself in. I will find my husband's fresh grave. It should be done and the grave diggers gone. I've checked, and they work fast.

I will look around, making sure no one is there to see. I will taste the cool night air. Relish it.

I will kick off my shoes, roll down my pantyhose and slide off my underwear. Then I will straddle his grave and urinate. I will make sure and hold it all day, storing up a large amount.

I will stand there, pissing on his grave. And I will hiss through my teeth:

“Drink that!

“Drink that, you miserable bastard!

“I knew! I knew all about her!”

Yes, I will do these things. I will do them to the man I married. The man I sleep with every night. The man I wake up with every morning. No matter how long it takes, I will not waver until he is dead.

Think about that. Let the thoughts fill up your fat little mind. Ruminate on what I will do to my Roger. Then look at this knife, and think what I won't do to you, bitch.