Assistance from the Heart…Attack

June 21, 2007: My husband has to die. There is no way around it. I have tried so hard to get him to see my point of view, my unbiased and educated perspective, but I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. So, he has to die. First it began with the sneering. He’s always gawks at me across our glass breakfast table. Then he curls his lip while he chomps on toast and the scrambled eggs I make. He even drinks all the freshly squeezed orange juice from the bottle and has the nerve to not leave me anything, not even a swallow! And he has yet to wash any of the china that he uses. I mentioned him washing the dishes once and he got all bent out of his rotund shape, told me how he works long hours and he doesn’t feel like washing dishes when he comes home. The nerve! I know when he looks at me through those spectacles over the morning newspaper he’s just laughing at me, thinking how gullible and submissive I am for making him breakfast. I bet he’s just boiling with victory. Not just the sneering, but he’s so inconsiderate. The toilet seat! He constantly leaves it up. Does he ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, I may need to enter the restroom after he does? Of course not. The toilet is “communal property” he says. We both should be “accommodated” and I could just put the seat down. Just put the seat down? How could he even formulate his pursed, cracked lips to say such a thing? I can recall one instance: I had just awoken from a migraine induced sleep. Walking in the dark to use our bathroom is a piece of cake - left at the fireplace, past the vanity, around the bed, and right as soon as my foot hits the nightstand. Do you know that when I sat down on the toilet, I fell in? And what’s worse, while reaching for something to steady 1

myself, I broke one of my French manicures. French! All he had to do was listen to me and put the seat down, that’s all I asked for. Moreover, it’s the little things. One day I specifically asked for fresh Hydrangeas to put on the dining room table. He bought ORCHIDS! They are clearly a winter flower, and this is June! When does Hydrangeas sound like Orchids? Never! Sneering. So incosiderate. Flowers. This is why my husband must die. And now I just have to figure out how to do it. I would have poisoned him a long time ago, but it’s just so, common. And I am not a common woman. Signed, Yours Truly – Angry Wife I slowly slid open the top drawer of one of the auburn nightstands underneath one of the matching glass lamps that sit on my side of the bed. I closed the clasp on the diary, running my fingers across its magenta, suede covering before I placed it in the drawer. It dropped slightly from the weight of the diary. I grabbed the small orange container and rattled its contents. I hated being dependent on these things, but it was necessary to control my mood swings. I didn’t take them like I should have, and I had been suffering for it – everything caused me to become emotionally undone, especially my husband’s antics. I ruffled through the magazines I placed in the drawer to give me something to do at night before I went to bed. There was a Good Health Magazine I had been meaning to read - I’d probably read it later. I placed the pills upright then closed the drawer. I breathed deeply, inhaling a whiff of temporary peace as I started toward the door and head down the stairs. The front door opens and slams shut. Oh God. “Hey, Babydoll.” I cringed. I hated when he called me that.


“Hello. How was your day?” I turned away from the sink, holding the German a carving knife. The florescent light over the sink shined down on the blade. How easy it would be to just plunge the steel into his throat, or maybe his stomach. But the clean-up would be so messy. I decided against it and placed the potential weapon into the dishwasher. “Fine. Held a couple of hearings today, the same old same ol’. But one did put in an insanity plea - I think it was his lawyer’s last hope.” My husband was a judge. And the toughness he exemplified in court was only as tough as his lack of concern for personal hygiene and household cleanliness. Not to mention his love for brandy. I wiped the marble counter of the remains from the meal I prepared. The water hadn’t even dried yet and yet he placed his briefcase down. The leather briefcase would end up sticking to the counter, leaving a sticky residue which, yes of course, I would have to clean up. “That’s wonderful, dear. Dinner’s on a plate in the oven. I put some extra gravy on the meatloaf for you.” I walked over to the oven and grabbed the plate with an embroidered yellow oven mitt. I pulled out a plate loaded to the brim with meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy and grilled asparagus tips, which I cooked a little too long, but it doesn’t matter. Anything to give me hope that he would die after eating it. “No thanks, I grabbed something to eat when I left the courthouse, so I’m not really hungry.” He stopped and looked around the room after he poured himself a glass of his favorite drink and looked disdainfully at me. “Did you forget to mop the kitchen today?” He laughed, but I didn’t find anything funny. He patted me on my behind. “You sure used enough bleach in here.” “What the hell did you do that for?” I started walking away. 3

“Aw come on, what’s a few licks between lovers, Babe?” I pretended as if didn’t hear him, and made my way towards the bedroom, stomping on each stair as I ascended. “I’m just teasing,” I heard him yell as I closed the door and begin to get ready for bed. After showering, I went back downstairs to do a final clean up of the kitchen. “I can’t believe he didn’t eat this food.” I think it had something to do with his last doctor’s appointment. Doc Know-It-All told him a few weeks back that he has “heart disease” and now he has to “watch his food consumption carefully” and “get plenty of exercise” and “reduce his stress levels.” Something’s diseased alright. His stomach has been hanging over his belt for years! He sweats walking downstairs and is drenched going up. All of a sudden, the doctor is concerned about his health. What a bunch of crap. He’s trying to keep him alive and I want him dead! I threw all of it into the waste bin while my husband sat in the living room reading a few papers and, sigh, drinking brandy. If I didn’t know any better, I would swear he was married to that bottle. Sometimes I just wanted to box him in head with it, just to see how much he would love it then. I cut off all the lights in the kitchen and headed upstairs, hoping that he wouldn’t follow me. Halfway up, I heard the shuffling of papers and knew that it signaled his coming. I skipped steps just so that I could get into the bedroom as quickly as possible and slide into the sheets to claim how tired I was. “Honey?” The judge reached and turned on his Italian bedside lamp. “Yes?” I already knew what he was going to say. I didn’t know if should have faked a headache or tell him my period was on, which I’d rather have twice a month just say avoid the wifely duties. I didn’t feel like having sweat dropping from his forehead onto my face. Not tonight. Not ever. 4

He turns to me, and we were both underneath the pink satin sheets, but I was more bundled than necessary. “Did I tell you how stunning you look tonight? It reminds me of our second honeymoon.” He looked longingly at me, beads of sweat forming at his brow and a slight drool from the corner of his lips. I wondered how he could have seen any part of me when I tried to make sure that the comforter covered as much as my body as possible. I glanced at the growing bulge underneath the comforter. He smiled. I died on the inside. “Yes, St. Thomas. I remember.” I remembered St. Thomas very well. Especially throwing up from the scent of musk and shrimp scampi in closed quarters. The rocking of the boat combined with the staleness of my husband’s B.O. was entirely too much for any woman to bear. I actually remembered throwing up for most of the trip, especially after a sexual romp and no way to open the windows. By this time he was already getting on my nerves, but I went through with the honeymoon because I thought it would be fun to have a wedding all over again. Now look at me, and look at that drool, ew. “It was…lovely.” My husband switched the lamp off and leaned in closer. Reaching out his bare arm, he pulled me closer. I struggled harder than a freed slave to get away. “I love it when you tease me.” “Who’s teasing?” “I love you so much Baby Doll. I’m glad I have you. You can stay around for a while. ” He chuckled breathlessly. And once again, I didn’t find anything funny. I hate people who laugh at their own jokes. “That’s nice.” “I hope you are still going to that reservation I made for you at the spa. I love it when you’re relaxed. You look much more peaceful.” That was true, but usually he saw 5

me peaceful after a daydream or two about him being removed from my life. But he’ll never know. My husband leaned over to kiss me. He aimed for my lips, but I turned my head just in time and he found my cheek instead. He rolled over on top of me, covering more than his fair share of the bed in one fell swoop. I felt the hardened bulge against my leg and the thought of that being anywhere near me made me throw up in my mouth a little. Sleep conquered him a few moments later – and, after taking a pill dry from the drawer, I finally was able to read Good Health Magazine, but not before writing another entry in the diary. June 21, 2007 (Continued) Once again. My husband asked me if I had forgotten to mop the kitchen. Despite the fact that I have cleaned the bathroom, dusted the display cases with his clutter that he calls awards, and once again washed all of the dishes and the clothes, his horribly soiled, unbearably odorous clothes, I decide not to mop the kitchen just that once and he went off on me! I have to make sure I do enough cleaning so when the maid comes, she won’t think we are living beneath expected standards. But what’s the point of having a maid come in once a week if it’s necessary for me to clean the house everyday because that pig husband of mine doesn’t know how to clean up after himself? Well I guess it doesn’t matter what she thinks – she can barely speak English. He’s so incompetent for a judge, why doesn’t he just die already. I would save me a whole heck of a little of energy and effort. But for some reason he just doesn’t get it. I don’t understand how he always finds a way to wriggle his way out of dying. Maybe next week will be different.


Actually, next week I think the mortgage is due, not to mention I have that appointment at the spa that I just can’t miss. Signed, Yours Truly - Wife of a Pig * * *

It’s almost time for my husband to come home from work, and all I did today was think about that Good Health Magazine. After reading a few articles, I discovered that I can kill my husband and make it look like an accident. It was so blatant, simple, but brilliant! The Creator placed that specific article in that specific magazine just to smile down on His suffering child! According to an article called “Heart Health,” the leading cause of death is – you guessed it- heart disease. And you’re at a higher risk if you are diabetic and obese. This was perfect! Lorena Bobbit would have been so proud at my liberation. All I had to do is trigger a heart attack and patiently wait. So rather than do my usual routine of cleaning, including the newspaper he left scattered all over the floor, I made the decision to love my husband to his grave. I turned the heat on extremely high – I felt a little damp myself – and put on the sultriest number I could find from Fredrick’s of Hollywood - I had to go cheap because that Scrooge I married would only let me spend 150 dollars today. He says I spend too much. Can you believe that? I heard the front door slam, as it always does whenever he enters the house. I heard his keys jingle and clank as he plopped them down onto the table. The muffled thumps increased, as he walked up the stairs. As soon as he entered the bedroom after a long day at court, I held my breath to avoid the stench of sweaty clothes. I stood there dressed, or half-dressed, in an all black 7

baby doll embroidered with small red flowers, no panties and black stilettos with small red flowers across the front strap. I usually wouldn’t have bought something so trashy, so “back-room-stripper-esque”, but desperate times called for desperate measures. I didn’t even take my medicine – it would have prevented me from going all the way by making my mind right. He stopped in his tracks and slung his trench coat across the vanity, knocking down each one my lotions. I couldn’t say anything about it, it would have ruined my plans. I walked over to him and slowly undid his pants, belt buckle then button. I lifted his stomach with my hands and slowly slid the zipper down with my teeth. His underwear was soaked around the brim from sweating and I held my breath because that was something I did not want to partake of. I pulled his moist manhood from its place behind his underwear and stroked it gently with my hands. I held onto him, kissing my way up his body and when I was fully upright I wrapped one leg around his waist and pulled him closer. I hopped slightly to place my other leg around him, using his neck as a brace. I felt his arms reach around and secure my legs and I kissed him deeply, square in the mouth. He threw me onto the bed and suddenly, I felt a thrust I hadn’t felt in nearly three months - so long I had forgotten what it felt like. It felt bigger than I thought or remembered it was, but that may have been because most of it was hidden beneath his overgrown belly. But it felt good, so good in fact, that I forgot the purpose of the sexual encounter in the first place. That is, until he began having rigid convulsions and rolled onto the floor. I thought I was home free, that my labor had not been in vain. I was a little disappointed though, he got me all worked up and I couldn’t even finish. I wiped his sweat from my forehead, while I tried to out what do. But one this was certain, I experienced joy seeing 8

my husband struggle to breathe. Then he passed out. I looked at his body lying there and thought about how long I would have to scrub the carpet so his scent wouldn’t linger in the room. How disgusting would it be to have a large sweat stain in my carpet? The audacity of him rolling out of the bed dying – and he knocked his lamp over which broke on the desk and sprayed glass all over my floor. Twenty minutes later, sirens blared in front of my house. Old Maid No-Life next door must have heard him and the lampfall and called the police shortly thereafter. So I played the “oh my, I-am-so-shocked-and-disappointed-and-dying-inside” role as the ambulance carried him off. I explained to the cops the truth – that my husband just couldn’t keep up. I rode with the cops to the hospital to hear the verdict. The hospital waiting area was sterile, the small, hard blue chairs lined up perfectly surrounding an array of magazines. Bright white lights contrasted with the darkness that was falling outside. I picked up Good Health and began to flip through the pages. I was home free, or so I thought. “Mrs. Jamison?” The deep voice startled me and I looked up from the article on weight gain. A very tall, dark and handsome doctor began to speak with me. His deep brown eyes were so alluring. But despite the fact that he was extremely attractive, I was actually a little concerned about the judge. That was a pretty messed up way to die. Old-Maid-NoLife’s husband died that way they say, but he wasn’t with her at the time. My thoughts drowned out everything he said until he said insulin. “Huh? What?”


“I said he’s going to make it, the insulin he had taken earlier that day prevented the heart attack from being fatal.” He then explained to me “Oh, I’m so relieved.” I forced out, hiding the fact that I was on the verge of bursting with tears. I went into this room and there he was sleeping. He looked so peaceful lying there helpless. I am glad that no one had heard about the incident, I didn’t want to deal with a slew of questions from strange family members or his co-workers. After sitting in solitude, I called a cab left a few hours later. When I returned home, I rushed to the bedroom, twisting my ankle on the stairs, to find Good Health Magazine. I flipped through until I found the page, almost tearing the magazine completely apart. I realized that I stopped reading just before they listed ways to prevent sudden death from a heart attack was unimaginable. Right there in a big bold heading was INSULIN! According to the article, insulin reduces the risk of sudden death by 50 percent! Can you believe that? I did not eat for the next three days. I didn’t know what was I was going to, but now I have to take care of him because if he dies now, then I could be charged with negligence, and frankly, I am too pretty for prison. But I kind of felt sorry for the buzzard. Three Months Later “Good morning Baby Doll. How was your sleep?” My husband was in the kitchen washing pots and pans that I washed the night before. This was the first time he had been this active in a while, and I felt a singe of pride well up inside knowing that I had had something to do with it. The distinct smell of scrambled eggs sausage and French toast lingered. On the table were half a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice a small plate of


food, and a sliced apple on the saucer next to it. The newspaper was folded neatly into a stack. “I saved you some breakfast. It’s Saturday and I was sure that you would sleep in.” “Good morning, dear. My sleep was fine, had a dream we took a trip.” He kissed me on the cheek. “The food smells good, what’s all this for?” “I love you, Mrs. Jamison.” His breath smelled of peppermint, rather than the brandy. He had stopped drinking after the attack and turned his focus onto chewing gum. He didn’t smell of sweat but rather Irish Spring. Not too heavy, not too light. The weight he lost during his recovery stifled the excessive sweating, thank God, and made him look, not half bad. I must admit that I was glad that he almost keeled over. He started being a gentleman. I haven’t had to clean much – I was finally able to let the maid go. He even bought me flowers last week and Godiva last night. That always was my favorite chocolate. I’m amazed that he remembered. “I know.” She turns towards him. “Do you love me?” “Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.” And for the first time in a long in a conversation where both of us were completely coherent, I was completely honest. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. People fall in and out of love all the time. And taking care of him for so long, I realized that I did really love him, I just disliked his ways. I ended up throwing that diary out along with the medicine. Now that we were doing better, I didn’t need any of that. All I needed was him. “Well, I’m making some changes Baby Doll. And maybe the next time I ask you, you’ll just say yes.” And we kissed deeply in the kitchen. I sat down and began to eat. While it wasn’t the best meal I have had in my life, it was a decent one. All this time I 11

was thinking that he was just a pig, but really, he was just a frog that just needed a boost to become a prince. But rather than a kiss, it was little love and affection, with a little assistance from the heart… attack.


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