The things in the glass jar

This is an experiment; English is not my native tongue, but I wanted to try what a start for a story would like if I wrote it with my style in English.

The things in the glass jar

I have a problematic husband. He has many flaws, like… he's at home. All the time. It becomes an issue when you and your partner both work from home. I could divorce him, but it's a long process after all, and I love my house. I could throw him out like a garbage bag�"which he is; sometimes I can't tell which one is which�"but he's practically a boomerang; he always comes back.

Maybe I should murder him? No, too messy. Or is it? We have a big basement, and I could just push him there, close the hatch, and let him starve. No, the washing machine is there. I don't like the idea of doing my laundry while my husband is begging for water, and how about the smell later?

Look at him, drinking his coffee like a damn king of the world, sitting behind his desk with his stupid glasses on, shaking his head at an article he just wrote�"no wonder, he wrote it. I once again pray for some kind of miracle: God, if you are there, could you please do something? Couldn't he fall in love with someone else and move out by himself? Amen.

"Honey, could you bring me another cup of coffee?"

Of course he noticed me lurking at the door while I'm trying to solve what to do with him. Actually, I'm convinced the reason for all problems in the world is my husband's fault, so I'd only save the whole f*****g world at the same time.

"Sure, darling." I give him a grimace, and he takes it as if it were full of fairies and sunshine. I take his cup, go to the kitchen, and think of poisoning him. We have rodenticides somewhere; is it enough to put him down? He would taste it, a voice inside of me says, and didn't we already agree that murdering him is not an option? I sigh while putting the poison back in the cupboard, glancing at it like it were the holy grail.

I pour coffee into his cup and return to his office. "Are you going out today?"

"No, why?" He sips the coffee, and he lifts his eyebrows as if he were surprised the drink is not poisoned.

"Never mind." Though I knew what he would answer, something in me breaks. I could hear the crackle of ice; it starts from my toes, and when it reaches my shoulders, I fall through the ice into the lake.

"Are you okay?" He looks at me like a puppy; his head is tilted to the left.

Am I okay? Do I look like I'm okay? I'm shaking. I look around searching for a weapon. His office is clean and organised like an operating room. Why isn't it an operating room? At least there would be something sharp, for f**k's sake. His wallet, a small fake plant, and a lipstick�"not his, that's mine, I think he hides his own lipstick collection�"are on the side table next to me. I can imagine the headlines:

A DECENT HUSBAND WAS KILLED�"the police confirm: It was the lipstick in his a*s/his throat was slit with a credit card/it seems he was attacked by an artificial cactus.

"Hon?"

I shake the ice off me. I put my hand on the side table. My fingers are getting closer to the wallet. "I'm fine."

My husband stands up when something weird happens. A sparkling sphere appears behind him. What the hell is that? He doesn't notice it, and I keep my mouth shut. It looks like a hole in the fabric of reality. This is it. I know it. This is my chance. I run towards him; he opens his arms like he's ready to embrace me, a smile on his face like a dripping syrup. "F**k this," I say and push him into the hole. He sways, falls backward, and the hole devours him.

OH. MY. GOD. Thank you. It seems like the hole winks at me and disappears my husband in it.

Well, that's good. What else do I have on my to-do list today? Grocery shopping. Gardening. One client in the afternoon.

I close the door of my husband's office. I keep going about my day as if nothing were wrong, as if a mysterious hole didn't eat my husband. I'm a therapist. I'm good at putting things aside, and as the hours go by, I'm sure it all happened to someone else. I have a fruitful session with a client who suffers from a childhood trauma. After he leaves, I put all his thoughts, tears, and struggles in a glass jar, close the lid, and let them be there until next time. I wonder where my husband is. He's probably done his work for the day and is ready to do his favourite hobby, nothing. Don't you�"we�"remember? Oh. The incident.

I go upstairs and open the door. The whole office has disappeared; it's like the hole had come back and spread its essence all over the room. It looks like there's a slide of space in my house.

I close the door quickly.

Well, that's not good.

Author's Note

English is not my first language. This is my first time sharing my writing here, and my first time writing fiction in English. I'm aware of my writing isn't for everyone. I've been writing in Finnish for a long time. This is not a full story. Maybe the first chapter of a novel or a short story.