A Little Luck by Richard Shiers

I knew I was going to kill him right when I woke up that morning. Of course, it was a bit premeditated, but it wasn’t until the morning that I literally said, “this is it.”

The bastard had the nerve to say, “I love you, Melissa,” when he got up for work. I wanted to slit his vulnerable throat right there. Liars don’t deserve their lives, and that’s exactly what he was: a lying maggot.

Now I don’t want you to think I’m the crazy murderer wife. I’m actually quite the lady, but I planned on killing him because that’s what he was going to do to me. I read a letter he sent to his girlfriend, Trissa, saying how he was going to ‘give me what I deserved.’ In most incidents similar to this, the wife would kill the girlfriend, but I couldn’t think of any good reason to do that. She was probably some cute little slut with a giant rack, totally oblivious to the entire situation. She didn’t deserve it.

I woke up an hour after he left. It was probably about 10:00 by that point. I didn’t have any intention of doing anything to arduous for a while; I’m a housewife, whatd’ya expect? As I laid on the warm bed, enjoying the feeling of not having anything to do, the phone rang. Of course. I got up and walked into the living room, the caller I.D didn’t have a name but I answered anyways. It was my sister, Veronica.

“Hey, Melissa, how’s it.” She said in her cocky, enthusiastic voice.

“Fine, I guess.”

“Ya’ guess?”

“Yeah. What do you need anyways?

“Well, I was just wondering if ya’ needed anything.”

“No. Why would I need something?”

“Well, you just seem…like, ya’ know, needy.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I always hated her cryptic little sentences.

“Well, you don’t have a job, and we both know that Martie’s car dealer job isn’t workin’ out to well.”

“Well, I’m sorry we aren’t as lucky as you and Phil!”

“No, that’s not what I—” I threw the phone against the wall.

Sometimes I let my anger get the best of me (obviously.) My sudden rages got me into trouble numerous times. I remember when a lady double-parked at a Wal-Mart and I heaved a rock at her window. It was night by then so no one really noticed. It sure was funny though.

I frequently freak out on Martie too. Whenever he leaves the toilet seat up I tear it off and hand it to him like a baby I’m pawning off on him. Or, if I’m in an even worse mood, I’ll put his shoes in the toilet and laugh as he walks around with soggy feet.

He deserves all the torture though. He’s a cheater, a liar, and rapist. Well, not really a rapist but he has tried to give it to me when I wasn’t in the mood. He cheats on me every weekend though; he’ll go out and say he’s headin’ down to the bar, and he’ll come back completely sober and have a messy collar. One time, he was getting dressed and he took off his underwear, I saw his penis and a smeary, pink lipstick wrapped around it like a roll of tape. Can ya’ blame me for wanting to kill ’em?

My plan to kill him wasn’t scientific, in fact, it’s pretty stupid: it mainly involved me bashing his head in with a titanium rod that was put in his leg after he got hit by a car. I planned on hiding behind the door; he came home at the same time every day so it wouldn’t be too hard to time it correctly. Then, after the blood and brains had been spilled I would tell the police that I just got home from the salon and say someone else did it. Pretty bad, right?

Around 12:00, I walked around the apartment nervously. It was the first time in a few years that I was actually worried about anything. I mean, killing someone wasn’t the most comforting feeling ever. I wasn’t sure how I could occupy my mind long enough to stall the time between then and when Martie got home. Sometimes you just gotta’ suffer though.

I couldn’t wait for the miserable fuck to be dead though; he was always such a bastard to me. I could start fresh, have kids, and start a life that wasn’t as dysfunctional as the one I was being held captive in. I even thought that I might get a job, or a career, I was only 24 so I believed I still had a chance. If only that was the truth.

At 3:00 I hopped in the shower. I paced around the shower while the water surrounded me like a silhouette. My nervous levels raised the more and more I had to wait. I sat in the water and put my head between my knees. I actually started crying! It was the first time in years that I had done so.

Once I got out I tore up the house looking for the rod I was going to end his life with. I could’a sworn it was under the mattress, but ya’ never know what Martie does with stuff. He just spaces it sometimes and does something without knowing why.

It took a while to find the damn thing but once I flipped the couch, opened every drawer in the kitchen and checked his chest, I found it on the dresser: the one place I didn’t look. I wasted a fuckin’ hour looking for the thing and it was right next to the bed!

I began rehearsing the incidents that would take place one hour later. I practiced the swinging motion, imagining his brains flopping out as I waved the rod furiously in the air. I pictured smackin’ him with the blaspheming rod and his lifeless body collapsing. How wonderful!

At 4:45 I posted myself against the wall so when he opened it wouldn’t hit me. It was a bit exciting imagining all the possibilities that would unfold during and after the murder.

I heard footsteps. All other tenants were on the other half of the building so there wasn’t a possibility that it was them. It was strange that Martie was home early, he generally arrived at 5:00 every day. I was sure that if I lifted my shirt then I could see my heart pulsing in and out of my chest. I had both of my hands wrapped around the rod and sweat trickled down it. The steps closed in on me. I heard the hand on the doorknob and watched it turn slowly, like it was teasing me.

The door stopped opening about an inch away from my foot and started closing. I couldn’t wait to see his face once he closed it and saw a rod swinging down on him.

It closed and I slashed the air, making contact with his head. The body fell to the ground and blood spilled out onto the linoleum in a small pool. It took a few seconds to realize that the body belonged to none other than Veronica, not Martie.

Although I got mad at her at times, I did love her of course, sisterly love was a strong bond and I ended it with a single blow to her hard head with a titanium rod. I chucked the rod and started crying, really crying. I flipped her over and saw her eyes closed and her beautiful lips were opened as if in shock. I held my head against her chest and just sat with her.

Martie walked in after a few minutes and found me huddled around my demised sister. I ignored him and held her. What a fucking mistake I made! How could I screw up this bad?

“What happened?” Martie asked worryingly.

“I killed her.”

Martie stood up and pulled out his phone. I heard the clicks of him dialing those 3 numbers that you don’t want to be dialed when you murdered your sister.

Martie didn’t say a word to me and sat outside.

I was still holding Veronica tightly.

Well, that’s what happened and this is where I am at now, sitting here, waiting to be cuffed by the cops. That’s my fucked up story of murder gone awry. It couldn’t have turned out any worse, that’s for sure.


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