Kill 'em with Kindness

I think my husband is cheating on me.

There’s none of the traditional indicators: coming home late with lipstick on his collar or the hint of another woman’s perfume. He hasn’t lost interest in sex, stopped buying me flowers or forgotten our anniversary, but the signs are there.

Six months ago, I’d stood leaning against the bathroom door, watching him in the mirror as he shaved before work. He’d winked at me and started crooning a love song. That’s when I noticed the grey hairs at his temples.

Soon after that he’d swept me off my feet in the living room, moving in time to the music on the radio. Swaying side to side, my eyes were drawn to fine wrinkles on his forehead. All perfectly normal for a man of thirty-four, I’d thought at the time.

Somewhat less normal was what happened when we went out to eat with some of his work friends. I’d skimmed the menu then looked up to see him holding the menu at arm’s length, tilting his head back and squinting.

“Damn writing is too small” he murmured when he saw me looking.

“It looks fine to me” I said, staring him down.

I paid close attention to him after that. I noted how he started getting out of breath when climbing stairs, the wrinkles on his forehead deepened and he started complaining of back pain. When he returned from a three-day work trip he called out from the front door.

“In here!” I called back, drying the last of the wine glasses. Hearing his footsteps I turned and started when I saw him. His hair was heavily speckled with grey, and I was convinced it had receded. His strong jaw line was less defined as skin had started to loosen and droop.

Seeing me staring he shrugged, embarrassed. “Don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this” he gestured awkwardly to his changed appearance. I whipped the tea towel down onto the counter, put the wine glass in the cupboard and stormed out without saying a word.

The following night I sat in our living room with the lights off, waiting for him to come home. Working late, he said. Whilst I waited, I mulled over the situation. Cheating was wrong but so was murder, and the guilt would be written all over my face. No amount of feeding the homeless or donating to orphans would balance out murder; but as I sat in the dark in my mind’s eye, I saw a beautiful plan unfurling.

I’d started up, feeling my heartbeat thudding in my ears, found a pen and some paper and left my dear husband a note to say that I was going to stay with my sister. I fished out the emergency stash of money I kept in my sock drawer, left it by the note telling him to have a good time and I’d be back in two weeks. Reminding him that I loved him, I asked him to take care of my beloved plants and to feed Suki the stray cat if she stopped by.

After packing my bag and ringing my sister to let her know I was coming, I’d run around our little bungalow watering my plants. Standing in the doorway I took a long look around, and then I was gone.

A few days into my stay with my sister I received a letter from my darling husband. His writing was sloppy, and the note was short; clearly it was written in a rush. He thanked me for the money and said he’d be thinking of me non-stop until my return. I raised an eyebrow at this but folded the letter with a sharp crease and put it in my handbag. It might be needed for evidence.

After two weeks had passed, I kissed my sister on the cheek and began driving back home, wondering if my plan would have worked. My heart thudded against my chest as I walked up the path to our little bungalow. Any doubts that my plan had worked were gone when a foul odour invaded my nostrils. Once unlocked, I swung the door open and took in the sight in front of me.

My husband, or rather his body, was in his chair in front of the T.V. which was blaring, and subtitles had been turned on. His eyes were wide and desperate with bags of skin gathered underneath. His mouth was open as if he’d been gasping for breath. What was left of his hair was white and unwashed, his skin had sagged, and if the way his trousers hung off him was anything to go by, he was at least five inches shorter.

One bony hand clutched the arm of the chair, the other was pressed to his chest. I saw a piece of paper sticking out from the hand on his chest. Relenting for a second, thinking of him reading my letter in his final moments I almost felt bad. I approached him, covering my nose and mouth with the sleeve of my coat and slowly slid the letter from under his hand.

My sadness gave way, like sand through an hourglass. My husband had not been regretting his life choices and pining for me. He’d been clutching a letter from his mystery woman. I scoffed reading the note; she was leaving him, being together was ageing her, the stress was too much. Blah blah blah.

I squeezed out all the tears I could when talking to the police. Showing them the letter my husband had been clutching, plus the one he’d sent me whilst at my sister’s, I offered them my sister’s telephone number so they could check my alibi. It was obvious what had happened though, they drove me home giving their condolences for my loss without meeting my eye. They knew there was more to the story. A man doesn’t age that quickly unless he’s doing something really wrong.

Once home I sighed, then picked up a watering can. My plants were looking worse for wear; they’d not been watered. I was just giving some much needed plant food to my Devil’s Ivy when I heard Suki meowing at the window. Opening it, I noticed she was decidedly thinner. Both my simple requests to my husband had gone unheeded. That will have sped things up just a touch.

When the autopsy results were released, I feigned shock. Morality Driven Premature Ageing. It was confirmed he had in fact been cheating on me for many months. In his final weeks he’d spent my money on his mistress, having a frenzied love affair until his ageing disgusted her to the point of leaving. I heard she hadn’t come out of it looking too good either. He’d forgotten my plants, neglected Suki, lied to me, his friends, and colleagues. As he’d aged, he’d got behind at work, then stopped paying bills and had eventually been fired. He’d become bitter and angry, finding fault with the neighbourhood children, refusing to allow them to get their frisbee out of the garden. Nobody knows what the final deed was that killed him.

Today I look as young as ever. I still feed the homeless and donate to orphans. Suki is still a regular guest.

I didn’t kill my husband. All I did was give him the time and money to do with what he would.

You could even say I killed him with kindness.