Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Home Is Where the Knife Is

Home Is Where the Knife Is

By Joshua Weston

Morgan sat still with his hands in his lap, hunched over, staring at his wife Mindy. Mindy looked at him gently, her beautifully plump lips curling upward at the ends. They both glanced at the full plate of food in front of Morgan, then back to each other. The silence was as thick as the tension. Morgan lifted his hands above the table, fiddled with his fork for a few seconds, and jabbed at the casserole with extreme reluctance.

Half of Mindy’s smile dropped, creating a confused look seldom seen on the brilliant woman. “Are you not enjoying your meal, honey?”

“I don’t know,” Morgan stammered. “I just don’t seem to be very hungry.”

“You’ve got to be hungry. Eat something.”

Morgan looked up into the eyes of his seemingly loving wife. She’d been there through his divorce as his best friend, stood by him through his bout with attempted suicide, and confessed love for him just when he thought he had nothing to lose. She was his everything, and now he could hardly look at her.

She noticed a bit of uncertainty in his gaze, and cheerfully said, “Is there something wrong, hon?”

YES! YES THERE IS! “No, of course not, honey. Everything’s fine. I’ve just got a headache. I had a hell of a time at the office today.” The office was always a good excuse as to why he looked like he felt bad. He loved being there, and enjoyed his job as a consultant, but she didn’t know that. As far as she was concerned, that place was Hell.

“You really need to look into another place to work,” she said reassuringly. “I’m sure Michaels and Punter would hire you. You’re always talking about how well you get along during your meetings.”

SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP YOU ADULTEROUS BITCH! “Yes, yes I suppose so. But there’s just something- I don’t know, the place I’m at just feels right. Just having a bad day, is all.” His right hand continued to gently flip his food around while his left hand slid down his side and rested on his pants, tapping the pocket where the tape was. He knew. Tonight was the night.

“Well Morgan, you go ahead and eat, I’m going to go take a shower.” And with that, she rose from the table and stepped behind him, rubbing his shoulders, and gradually moved to his side, and moved her hands down to his crotch. “Or if you’d like, you can come with me,” she whispered breathily into his ear. And she was gone.

Hastily he jumped up and flipped the plate into the trash can and placed it into the sink. He crossed the room to the drawer and pulled out a kitchen knife. Exiting the kitchen, he was greeted by two shotgun blasts to the chest, knocking him to the floor, followed by a light rain of his own blood. He looked up to see the face of his murderer, a face he’d never seen before. They must’ve known I had the tape, he reasoned to himself. His chest heaved, spitting up small amounts of blood with every pump of his heart. The man stepped over Morgan’s dying body and began to raise the shotgun up to his face. Morgan swung the knife up and sliced through the man’s fingers all the way to the handle, dropping the gun into Morgan’s other hand. He then emptied a shell into his screaming assailant’s forehead.

Morgan attempted to pull himself up on a counter, but he couldn’t get the strength. How much time do I have left? Luckily, Mindy came into the room at that exact moment.

“Is it over? Oh my-“

The shotgun silenced the treacherous bitch, and Morgan lay down to die.

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