A Resounding Silence

*Trigger Warning: Some gore and foul language.*

“This is ridiculous!” Gwendolyn stated out loud. Her irritation was met with silence, something she wasn’t used to from her husband, as he sat at the small kitchen table. She was perched upon the floor on her knees, scrubbing her blue and white checkerboard tile that set perfectly within her bright lemon-hued kitchen, adorned with white cabinets and window frames. She was acutely aware of how out of place she looked as she carried on with the menial task at almost 9:00 PM, only the dim light above the stove on, still unable to sleep despite being up for the last 48 hours.

She was obsessed with being the perfect wife and mother. This notion consumed her as she scoured the floor with the stiff wooden scrub brush comprised of tawny bristles, that starkly contrasted her long-polished French-tip nails. Her pink Hepburn style swing dress, short sleeved with a high neck, swirled around her, partially concealing her white pump heels. Her shoulder length blonde waves swayed vigorously in harmony with her scrubbing as the mess fluttered onto her dainty white apron.

Stopping to look up, she wiped a hand across her forehead where beads of perspiration were forming on her tanned skin. She was just behind her husband’s chair, able to perfectly see the bald spot within his chocolate brown hair.

“Wow,” Gwendolyn scolded him, “I couldn’t get away from your bitching for years but all of a sudden you won’t say anything?”

Still, nothing. She sighed and continued with her task. As she did so, she envisioned the life that she wished for. She dreamt of her husband taking her lovingly into his arms instead of using those arms to hurt her; she dreamt of him being happy with what she made for dinner instead of angrily throwing it to the floor for her to clean; she dreamt of her 16-year-old son being this version of his father instead of his cruel real-world clone. Black mascara accompanied the tears that trickled down her ivory cheeks as she daydreamed.

An abrupt knock prompted the emergence from her reverie. The small door in the kitchen leading to the backyard was not used often, unless by her son, who was currently in his bedroom.

“I don’t suppose you will get that?” she asked, swallowing hard. Her husband said nothing.

She stood on shaky legs, wiping the sadness from her cheeks and composed herself the best she could. She pulled the apron off and draped it in her hand, careful as she walked. Thankful that the opaque white French panel curtain obstructed the view, Gwendolyn hesitantly made her way to the door in anticipation of the visitor. She released the apron onto the counter, and replaced it with a large kitchen knife. Her back on the wall beside the door, and heart beating uncontrollably, she peeked through the curtain’s side.

A man, unknown to her, stood under the yellow porch light on her small doorstep, wearing a dark blue police uniform. He appeared to be in his early 30s, thick curly ebony hair atop a pair of deep brown eyes and a strong, swarthy physique. His hands delicately hovered above a can of pepper spray on one side of his belt and a pistol on the other as he innocuously took in his surroundings.

“It’s a fucking cop, Roy!” she whispered angrily to her husband as she continued peering out the window. “That’s right. Your darling wife just said the word, ‘fucking!’”

Before another word could be spoken, the officer knocked again. Situating the knife cautiously behind her back, she took a deep breath, unlocked the single lock on the door knob, and cracked it open. Positioning herself to occupy almost the entirety of the opened space, lacking the height to conceal the gap above her head, she gave her most innocent face.

“Hello, officer, may I help you?” she asked, wide eyed and sweet.

“Oh yes, ma’am,” he replied, relaxed. “Are you Gwendolyn Gilbert?”

“I am,” she stated in the same pleasant fashion.

“I’m Officer Lashien. I’m sorry to bother you at this time of night. I tried the front door and there was no answer,” he said, as if waiting for an explanation. Gwendolyn just smiled as she waited for him to continue.

“Do you know Roy Gilbert and Chad Gilbert?” he carried on in a calm, professional tone.

“Oh, uh, yes. Uh-yes, sir. That’s my husband and son,” she answered more tensely, gripping the knife tighter in her hand.

“We had an anonymous call that your husband hasn’t shown up for work, nor has your son for school, in a couple days,” he told her, his calm demeanor steady.

“Oh, uh, they have been sick,” she uttered more tensely than she meant. “The flu,” she half-laughed, “it’s been a mess here but they’re slowly recovering.”

“I see,” Officer Leshien acknowledged.

“Um, my husband is here at the table and my son is in his room if you’d like to come in…,” she stated hesitantly, her knuckles white as she increased her grasp on the knife. The officer managed a quick leisurely glance just above Gwendolyn’s head as she stood stock still.

“No, that’s alright. Everything appears fine here,” he affirmed. “If they’re going to be out, just make sure their work and school are notified.” Gwendolyn nodded in agreement and smiled. “Again, sorry to bother you, Mrs. Gilbert. Have nice evening.”

With that, the officer unceremoniously turned around and disappeared back around the front. She held her breath as she listened to the officer’s footsteps fade away, the opening and closing of a vehicle door, and then watched as the patrol car drove away nonchalantly.

Gwendolyn exhaled with relief as she closed and locked the kitchen door, her back against it as she laid the knife delicately on the counter.

“Thanks to no help from you, you piece of shit,” she expressed to her husband with disdain. Suddenly, his silence enraged her.

“Ahhhhh!!” she screamed as she marched toward him, “answer me!”

Taking both hands and all her strength, she pushed him as hard as she could, stumbling against the small table as she did. He fell to the ground with a loud clunk, his chair crashing with him. He remained silent.

She peered down at him, and as she did, the anger subsided. Just as suddenly as the rage came upon her, so did the regret. Tears poured as she fell to her knees, cradling her husband’s head in her hands.

“I’m so sorry, Roy!” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry to you and Chad!” 

The blood from the gash on his jugular was now a brittle copper blanket that covered the front of his lifeless body. She blubbered as she ruminated about their son upstairs in the same condition. 

“What have I done?” she howled. Roy’s reply maintained a resounding silence.