A short story I wrote recently.
I have been waiting in my car for an hour now.
I’m parked on the far corner of a 24-hour supermarket parking lot, on top of the crunchy gravel, beside a graffiti mural of a Spanish lady twirling around, her fiery red dress visible even at this time of night.
Security guards patrol the lot once an hour, which is when I crouch as low as I can, made invisible by my black clothing. I am careful to keep my knees tucked. When they drive past and see no one in the driver’s seat, they simply assume my car belongs to a loyal customer who has dropped in to buy whatever someone needs at 1:30am. They don’t spend too much time observing my car. After I can’t hear the gravel moving under wheels or feet anymore, I slowly uncoil myself. I am safe until the next hour until I plan to leave.
I know this because I have been studying this very parking lot for weeks.
I fish my phone from my pocket. It’s nearing the time when I need to drive out of the parking lot, and onto the bridge, so that I can complete what I have planned at the right time.
As I look into the blanket darkness, I wonder what Beth would make of this. She’d look at me with contempt and say, “What kind of a father are you?”
If Beth is right about one thing, it’s that I’m not a very good one. The truth is, I’m doing this for my son, most of all. He deserves a father who can protect him.
I have been a weak man in my marriage. Beth has a way of telling me this often; not with words, but with a small shake of the head and averted eyes, unable to look at me. A defeated sigh, perhaps.
Once, she tilted her head and asked why she even bothered anymore.
When I remember our marriage now, I feel hollow, as if I was remembering something that had died. We were so happy the day we got married. It was a small, simple arrangement on the beach where we had both met each other for the first time, on a section of the bay that is hidden from the main shore.
I remember the stillness of it all. There was no wind, and even the waves seemed to move in slow motion as I held her gently and kissed her. The sun glinted off her eyes, illuminating the thousands of brown hues in a split second. Salty waves fizzled out behind us, and when she whispered, “I love you,” I felt as though there was a flame in my chest.
I am alone now, though. She made a point to stamp on that flame enough so that it would never be able to light itself again. Perhaps this plan is the best for everyone. After tonight, Beth won’t have to be with me any longer.
I allow this thought to reassure me as I finally drive slowly out of the parking lot. The strange sense of thrill begins to bubble in my veins and overflows into the very air itself; interlocking with each and every sound wave my car produces as it hums.
Finally, I am on the bridge. No cars are in sight, and I know none will be for at least another half an hour. I check the time: 2:12am. It’s our wedding anniversary, December 2nd. Now is the right time.
My heart pounds a little faster as I step out of the car, closing the door as quietly as I can, making sure the headlights are off. My eyes have become used to the darkness by now. It looks as if someone has spilt a vat of navy blue dye on the rippling water, and gazing down on the glistening specks of the moon’s reflection, I feel powerful. My senses are awakened. I breathe in the fresh, cold air piercing my skin and for once, I am in control of what happens. I stride confidently to the barrier of the bridge, which is just as high as my hips. I am lost for a minute in the adrenaline of it all.
I walk back to my car and feel around for the latch of the trunk. I click it open and at once the powerful intoxication returns.
Beth – my lover, my wife, the bitch – has lazily awoken from the pills I mixed into her drink. She tries to scream when she sees me when she realises I am dressed in black, and that I have made no move to help her escape. In the dim moonlight, I can read her eyes framed by furrowed brows clearer than anything: You can’t do this, John. You won’t do this. It sounds demanding, even though it comes from behind a strip of tape.
I don’t have time for a speech. I reach my arms into the trunk, one gripping her behind her knees and the other around her waist, like I held her on our wedding day in the photo that hangs above our lounge, which people always find a way to remark upon.
I walk to the barrier. I rest her body on the bar. I stare into those deep brown eyes, and I say nothing. With a final push, I send her body over the edge. The tape covering her mouth will slide off in the water, and the autopsy will confirm that she failed to commit suicide the first time.
I will miss the woman I married. Her soft, light laughter; the way she couldn’t resist sorting tomatoes from other vegetables in a salad; how she would have given the world for me, and I for her. I will drive back to the place we used to call our home soon, and I will grieve Beth. I decide I will not waste a tear on the woman she became.
I stare at the settling water swallowing her body. For now, I am at peace. ✦
No comments:
Post a Comment