TORNADO

I’d always heard that when people were angry, they saw red, like a bull in a ring, like that monkey from the zombie movie I watched. But for me, when the time came, it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t a cascade of emotions, nor was it like a missile ready to go off. It was a tornado, a whirlwind of thoughts, ideas, assumptions, and feelings wrapping itself around me, sucking the air from my lungs and the sense from my head. I was in the middle, in the eye, with no way to get out, no way to breathe, and no way to think clearly.

Once you’re in the tornado, anything can set you off: loud chewing, slow walking, heavy breathing. Everything she did now made me want to bash her head in with the matching tea cups we got for our wedding, then take her body to the big park and dig a really deep hole.

I’d listened to enough crime podcasts to know how to get away with it. I just needed to remove the teeth and fingernails. I had to think about the head; the head was a problem. Just ten minutes ago, I was thinking about her beautifully long neck and how I wanted to run kisses up it. Now, its length was a problem, a problem I was going to have to deal with. But how?

How was a normal woman, in a ninth-floor apartment, going to remove the head from her wife’s beautifully slender neck? The knives were good; they had also been a wedding present. For all her faults, my wife was very good at sharpening them. They were ready to go but not for a neck. Maybe for her fingers. Did I need to take the whole finger off or just the prints? The prints would be easy; I could peel them off with the big knife I used to cut up courgettes for dinner and then put them in the big bin used by the whole building. Bin day was tomorrow, so now was the best time for the killing of a loved one. Okay, so that’s the fingernails, back to the head.

Then I remembered! Mum had never taken back her electric turkey carver she brought over for Christmas. That would do a neck; it would do an arm, let alone a neck. Okay, the plan is done, well, most of it. How do I actually kill her? I think taking off the neck while she’s still alive will be messy, and she might try to stop me. She might turn on me. Then she’d have to deal with my fingerprints and my neck. She’d be in prison straight away; she never wanted to watch the murder docos on Netflix with me.

We’d had dinner, obviously, but not dessert. Maybe I could poison dessert. We didn’t have rat poison. Would the cream cleaner for the bath do the job? Could I Google “will cream cleaner for the bath kill a person” while sitting next to her? Would the police find it on my phone? Then I’d be done for. What else, what else, what else could go in the chocolate pudding she’d bought on the way home? She’d forgotten the bleach, another reason I was seething next to her on the couch. I’d seen a big pan be quite effective in a lot of movies, so maybe a few quick bashes with that, a stab with the BBQ tongs, and bish, bash, bosh she’d be gone. Then it’s off with the head with the turkey carver. I take out the teeth, keep them in a box in our room, and put the head in a black bin bag from under the sink. Then I strip her fingernails with the sharp knife, put them in the bin, and pack the rest of her body into the big yellow suitcase we used when we went to Mykonos last year. After dark, I’d drive to the woods, bury her body in a deep hole, and throw her head in the river. Sounds pretty simple, and then she’d be gone from my life. The tornado would subside, and I would be happy again.

However, the mortgage. What do I do about the mortgage? We split it and the bills. While I make enough, I definitely couldn’t afford it alone, and we only got this stupid one-bed, so I couldn’t get someone to move in. Maybe I get a new girlfriend first, one on the side I can put on the mortgage once I’ve killed her off. That would be a good comeuppance for her, as she watches up from hell. I could go younger, blonder, dumber. That would make me feel smarter. But I hate being a parent, which is why we never had kids. Why would I want to raise a girlfriend? Okay, maybe I go older, yes, older! A Gillian Anderson type. I can sell the apartment and move in with her. I bet Gillian Anderson has a nice place, bigger than this one. I bet she has an office, doesn’t have to share a dining table when working from home. I wouldn’t even need to work; Gillian can pay for me, and I can do Pilates in £400 leggings, go for brunch with all the other kept women, shop at Harrods, and bake lemon drizzle cake. I mean, I am nearly 40, so I’m not sure I’m the greatest candidate for a sugar baby, but maybe Gillian would want a mature one, one who can keep up with her. That’s what people want from their sugar babies, right?

Okay, fine, so maybe not murder. Maybe I just keep up this silent treatment for a while, waiting for the tornado to pass. But how? How do I forgive her for this?

I spent hours on that meal. I cut up courgettes the way she liked, made the mushrooms really small, which I hate by the way. It doesn’t make the texture better; it’s worse, and you can taste it. I overcooked the spaghetti for her and bought the good mince, the expensive mince, the mince from the creepy butcher who once asked us which one of us was the man and if he could join in one day. After all of that, after all that work, she added fucking salt to it. How dare she! It was perfect, well-crafted, and lovingly made. And now I have to sit here hoping and waiting for her to apologise as we watch The Office for the 50th time, and I know she has a crush on Pam. It’s just one thing after another. It’s just so rude. 

So now I have to sit here and ride it out. She better know I’m not saying one word to her until she says she’s sorry, maybe buys me some flowers, and gives me a massage. This better be the best apology she’s ever made, or I’ll be getting out mum’s electric turkey carver and I’ll figure out the rest.