Tuesday Dinner

... right as she finished mopping up the last of his blood from the dining room, is when she heard the first steadily increasing wail of sirens in the distance.  She wasn’t too surprised, she didn’t honestly expect to get away with it.  She fired twice from the shotgun he always kept above the bed, even the most unobservant neighbor would’ve heard it disrupt their pleasant family dinners.  

A brief moment of panic set in.  “Oh god, what am I going to say?”  “Do you think they’ll believe me?”  “Maybe I should just shoot myself?  No, I don’t deserve that and god, what if there really is an afterlife and I show up right next to the bastard?”.  She visibly shook, but whether it was from fear of the fast-approaching police or the disgust of seeing her husband in the afterlife would never be known.  

She dropped the mop on the floor, no sense in trying to hide it now.  She wasn’t some evil mastermind who could get away with murder, having listened to enough murder podcasts she knew they always got caught.  Instead of continuing to clean, she decided to make a pot of coffee.  “Now Stace, you know coffee keeps you up,” she said out loud to herself “but, I suppose it’s going to be a long night for me so I can probably live with the caffeine”.  She methodically prepared her coffee the same way she has for the last nine years.  The large blue coffee cup she bought at a K-Mart going out of business sale.  The same Irish cream coffee creamer she’s enjoyed since college and the stupid Eiffel tower shaker full of ground cinnamon she received as a gift from Steve’s sister after she visited France.  A scowl grew on her face as she remembered his sister Elizabeth insisting they watch an hour and a half worth of photo slide shows from her stupid vacation.  The last vacation she had been on was her honeymoon with Steve and they went to Mount Rushmore.  Who does that for a honeymoon?

As she poured the water into the old coffee pot, she heard a rustling noise from behind her.  Knowing the sound of rustling trash bags, she quickly spun around half expecting Steve to be stepping out of the trash bags she had not so subtly left in the middle of the room.  A sigh of relief, followed by panic rushed across her as she saw the dog Moose scratching at one of the three lumpy bags.  “Shoo!  Damn dog, I should’ve shot you too!” she screamed and stomped to scare the curious puppy off.  She instantly felt bad about that, as she’d grown fond of the damn mutt.  Ya, he made messes all over the house, and wouldn’t leave her alone when she wanted a minute of peace and quiet, but it was just a dog and didn’t understand what had just transpired.  

Enough coffee had filled the carafe that she could continue the ritual preparation of her sweet sweet caffeine.  Fill almost to the top, add Irish cream until it turns a pleasant sandy-tan color.  Top off by adding three shakes of cinnamon to the top.  “Ahhh, that’s the stuff right there” she sighed blissfully as she took her first sip.  

She sat down at the table, sipping her coffee and staring at the pink stain on the tasteless wallpaper that had been there when they moved in.  She didn’t know how she planned on cleaning that up.  Maybe she would try bleach, or maybe she’d use it as an excuse to finally tear down that god-awful sunflower wallpaper that had assaulted her eyes for years.  

The sirens wee-ooed annoyingly as the first police cruiser screeched to a halt outside the house.  It dawned on Stacey that she should feel panicky right now.  Panic was a common emotion for her, but she couldn’t find enough inside her to care too much at this moment.  She did what she had to and she didn’t feel any remorse.  But what if they didn’t believe her, or worse, didn’t care?  She could go away for life.  Or, they could see what happened and she’d get off scot-free?  She’d have to move probably.  Couldn’t possibly see Francee or what’s her name watering their flowers, but secretly wondering if they were neighbors to a crazed murderer.  

Murders a funny thing.  Sure there are a few good reasons to kill another human being, not many, but surely some.  Even if she fits into that rare category she’d be marked as a killer for life.  At this point, she didn’t care about gaining any sympathy votes or playing to anyone’s heartstrings.  She did what she did and she’d do it a thousand more times if it meant she didn’t have to deal with that arrogant piece of shit again.  

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.  Stacey twitched at the pounding just enough to slosh a bit of her cinnamon and Irish cream coffee onto her hand “shit” she cursed as she slurped up the mess on her hand.  Taking a final pull of her coffee she set it down and stood up.  

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!  “Police, please open the door or we’ll have to come inside.  We have a report of gunshots from inside the house”.  The guy yelling on the other side of the door seemed pretty insistent and Stacey’s first reaction was to smirk at the silliness of it all.  Never did she imagine she’d be in this situation.  About to get arrested, dragged away in handcuffs as her neighbors watched on.  Francee would probably be outside, pretending to water her stupid tiger lilies like it was normal to do that at night.  “Nosy bitch,” she thought to herself.  

As Stacey stood up she could see the single cop car she heard had now turned to three and there were police already blocking traffic.  “Damn they’re fast,” she said to no one in particular.  “I’m coming!” she cooed a little too cheerfully.  A sense of guilt crossed her mind as she told herself she should probably sound more distraught and crazed, but that soon passed as she realized she wasn’t interested in putting on a show anymore.  She didn’t have to do that anymore.  Not for any man.  

She unlatched the deadbolt and turned the knob, opening the door for the police officer.  As the officer began talking, Stacey's world went quiet.  His lips were moving, but she didn’t hear anything.  Like parking on an active train track, she got hit with the reality of everything and the rest was a blur.  She’d be all right in the end.  She did what needed to be done and even if she went a little over the top, at least Steve couldn’t hurt her again. 

“Stace!  Get down here and make some damn dinner!”  The bellowing demand from downstairs snapped her out of her unexpected writers high.  Had she really just written her first book?  Well, a book might be a stretch but she certainly had written something.  She always wanted to be a writer, too bad life took her in a different direction.  “I swear to god woman, if you don’t get down here and stop screwing around you’ll regret it!”  She saved her new story and quickly emailed it off to her sister.  She’d know what to do with it.

She stood up and tucked in her desk chair, she sighed heavily and prepared to head downstairs to Steve.  As she walked to the hallway she turned around and stared absently at the now empty rack above her bed.  She knew all along that wasn’t the first book she typed, it was her first and last confession.