Two Wives, One Funeral, No Tears

Inspired by a writing prompt, here is one of my first completed murder stories ~ Hope you enjoy it

Two Wives, One Funeral, No Tears

 

            Together, they bore their eyes upon the coffin - thick, heavy, dark-wooded, thoroughly polished over each and every crevice - made just the way he liked it: perfect.  The mere sight of it made them both cringe in remembrance of how the man lived, and how he died.  There was no need for elaboration on such a matter.  Though no one else in the funeral would bother to notice, the two could only look clearly towards each other and take note of the long black sleeves worn on a blazing August afternoon. 

The priest continued to drone on and on about the late one’s ambitions, virtues, accomplishments, duties, and whatnot.  He glazed over the corpse’s life as if he were but dusting off a simple portrait.  Little did he know the filth beyond the white walls of the mansion; even less did he see the blood stains that smeared the pure image that was always fabricated for visitors.  Absolutely no one outside the mansion was aware of the gritty truth that lay behind the pretty lies.  No one, that is, but the two women as they stared at one other on either side of the coffin. 

They dared not make eye contact.  How could they face the guilt?  Together, they knew they shared the blame over what has happened.  Why did it have to be so difficult to simply formulate the courage to defend oneself?  Why continue to live in fear and silence?  Oh, why did neither one of them just say something to stop it?  The answer was simple:  he was scum.  Neither of the women dared to speak such language against their husband - not even as a whisper.  Yet, their thoughts burned across their hardened temples like an inferno.  Their hate for him was obvious only to each other, but it was still hate nonetheless. 

For years, they had wanted their husband dead.  For every moment he struck them, for every moment he drew blood from their skin, and for every moment he spat such degrading insults mere inches away from their terrified faces - they were all the more eager to witness his downfall.  The question was:  how?  How could such a conniving yet clever man be fooled into a trap?  How can one so manipulative meet his demise?  It all began with the arsenic. 

Funny how a simple, seemingly harmless substance could be of use.  All that was needed was an excuse, which in that case was this: 

“There seems to be a problem with rats in the attic, dear.”

“She’s right, love.  If we leave them to lurk in there much longer, who knows how long it will be before they begin to multiply.”

“Of course, sweetheart, we’ll save you the trouble.  All we require is a quick trip to the market to get the rat poison and those rodents will be dead by sunrise tomorrow.”

With condescending snorts and a word of approval - though spoken with an addition of profane addresses to the two of them - from their husband, the ladies set off to the market to obtain their murder weapon.  As promised, the trip was quick with not a moment spared for dillydally.  And yet, when they returned, there was no surprise that they were welcomed as ungratefully as usual with the occasional beating for arriving half a minute past schedule.  One by one, the bruises formed across their arms and upon their ribs.  Even when sprawled across the wooden floors like rag dolls, the women received no mercy as his polished boots smashed against their sides.  The beatings, as one could guess, were the norm within that household.  After all, with only the three of them living there, there was nothing to prevent him from doing so.  He needed no reason, nor did he feel any obligation to find any.  It was but routine.

Minutes later, he exited the room without a word.  The ladies could only but see through their blurred vision the stooping and sweaty figure stumble his way to the dining room where he would await his evening tea for approximately five minutes or less.  Allowing him to wait a second more would result in another beating.  Trembling as they rose, the wives gripped each other’s hands as they assisted one another off the blood stained floor - which of course they would be forced to clean later - and set off into the kitchen. 

Carefully, they huddled themselves by the kettle as they prepared the tea, not neglecting to add the special ingredient to their concoction.  For a moment, before the poison was mixed, one of them hesitated.  She froze in her place, holding the arsenic in one hand while squeezing the counter in the other.  Her face turned pale as she realized the sin she was preparing to commit.  She looked into the eyes of the other wife.  Has it really come to this?

The other answered by placing her hand upon the container of arsenic while the trembling wife still held it in her whitened fingers, and tipped it so its contents trickled into the depths of the tea.  Yes.

Together, they brought the tea to their master and together they observed as he held the cup in his hands, surveying their handiwork.  For a moment, they wondered if maybe, just maybe, he would show even the slightest bit of sincerity for the years they have devoted themselves to serving him to his every need.  They pondered the possibility that he might just have the heart to thank them - for once.  Not to their surprise, he merely cursed their delay even though they brought his refreshment half a minute early.  In general, there was no satisfying him.  With that in mind, they bore their eyes carefully upon him as he drank the cup’s contents, struggled under the poison’s effect, and collapsed in his seat at the high end of the table.  Remorseless was how he lived and remorseless was how he died.

Two wives observed as the same man was lowered into the depths of the earth.  Together, they inherited his lack of remorse as they tossed the dirt into his grave without a tear in their eyes. 

 

Author's Note

Feel free to give me your honest opinion in your feedback ~