Death's Assistant

   With a dramatic sigh, you pour a cup of coffee for your husband, adding exactly two packets of sugar and two drops of “essential vitamins” before padding back to your bed. Your husband lies still, pale and wan. The lack of hair that lays atop his fragile head only accents the creases and corners of his rapidly deteriorating face.

   But you’re his wife. You know him better than anyone else, even if everyone around him thinks he is just a billionaire dying from old age. 

   You tap him on the shoulder, a soft smile on your face as you watch him groan and open his faded brown eyes. You place a gentle arm around him after setting the steaming cup of coffee atop a dresser, gradually drawing him up to a sitting position against the dark headboard of your shared bed. 

   You can see in every corner of his drooping mouth and wrinkled eyes that he is fading. Soon, your lover will be gone, and all you will be left with is this empty mansion, filled with ghosts and echoes of the past. 

   He smiles wanly at you, his trembling skeletal fingers gripping the coffee mug.

   “Thanks, Jane,” he says, his voice a broken whisper among the hushed stillness around you. 

   You say nothing and run a gentle hand across his head, watching carefully as he takes his first sip of coffee. You’ve never liked coffee, particularly since you thought it was for the bitter and the vain. All your life, the broken drank coffee, trying to drown their struggles in the biting heat of bitterness. 

   You prefer the soothing, medicinal qualities of tea. Green tea, in particular. 

   Your husband coughs, and you take the coffee away from him, drained to the dredges. Despite his stomach pains, he still insists on drinking coffee, every morning. His muscles were slowly growing stiff, and his memory slowly deteriorated, until some days he forgot who you were. It was quite valiant, at the very least; he was trying to fight the death that was coming for him. 

He closes his eyes, leaning back against the headrest of the bed. Taking care of Mark was tiring work, especially since he could barely move, and still insisted on taking a daily walk. But he was dedicated. Focused. Naive. That was, in fact, why you married him. 

   You look out the window and, not for the first time, thought about how wrong the weather forecast had been. The inferior weatherman had said that today was supposed to be sunny, with a chance of cloudiness that flitted across the bright blue sky in small puffs. 

   Instead, the sky was gray, and a chill snuck up your spine, causing you to shudder briefly. You turn around, your eyes scanning the closet behind you; for a quick instant, you thought you saw a dark shadow flit by. 

   Mark coughs again, and you turn back towards him, placing a gentle hand on his spine to prop him up again. His strength is weakening rapidly; his once vivacious persona had faded into nothing but a skeleton. 

   “Did you drink your tea this morning?” he asks. 

   You notice his voice is phlegmy, always on a chilly day like this. You, on the other hand, enjoy days like this. The cloudy skies provides a lovely cover for more sinister things happening underneath; it also stops the sun from burning everyone on this earth alive. 

   You brush a hand on top of his shoulder, giving him a quick peck on the lips. “Yes, I did. What would you like to eat this morning?”

   Mark groans, gently moving your hand away from his back, and sits up. His lips are pale and cracked, how they have been for the past few years. Not that you care. You are his wife because of the admirable qualities within him, not because of his appearance. Besides, your beauty and his intelligence compliment each other.

   “I don’t know if I’m up to eat. You’re looking a bit thin, my love. You should make something yourself, or order out. I don’t want you to be suffering because of me,” he says, his voice growing stronger with every passing word. 

   You give him a quick hug, standing up and stretching. “After I work out, my husband. I’ll see you in about forty minutes, okay?”

   He nods, and you leave, after giving him another peck on his forehead. The maid will arrive soon, and will help him change and look over him for the forty minutes you are not at home.

   You exhale with relief as you step out onto the sidewalk. Unlike some others, you enjoy the cracks, displacing the perfect slabs of cement. Beautiful works of unintentional art. You frown as a jogger passes by you; typical female joggers, all wearing sports bras and leggings. You, on the other hand, are wearing a light yellow dress that clinches your waist and fans out at your knees. You enjoy the eyes on you as you run; besides, you’re naturally special. 

   After a few minutes of stretching, you begin jogging down the street, waving at a few neighbors who giggle and laugh as they point at you. Because you are the devoted wife of Mark Ryans, one of the richest men in this country. And, unlike Mark, you are young, sprightly, and beautiful. 

   It’s no secret that you are extraordinarily attractive. Your dark hair hangs in wondrous waves down your shoulder, currently up in a ponytail that whacks your face after each step. Your eyes are an intoxicating shade of chocolate brown that accentuate your heart-shaped face, complete with a constellation of freckles, a pert nose, and full, rose-bud lips. 

   Your body is seductive as well. And you know it. When Mark stopped being able to attend the galas, you began dressing in sheer, form-fitting dresses to see how other men would react to you. It was intoxicating, really, to be so beautiful. You never understood why other attractive women shied away from expressing their beauty. Beauty was power, something that could ensnare even the most intelligent of mankind. 

   Your feet pounds against the sidewalk, in time with the rapid pace of your heart. You feel perfectly serene while you run; running is merely to keep your body in shape and to let off some of the nervous energy that occasionally pours off of you. 

   On your way back, after around twenty minutes, your phone rings. Not surprised, you see your maid’s name flashing in white letters across the previously dark face. With a sigh, you answer it with a curt, “This is Jane.”

   Your maid’s panicked voice fills the previous serene silence. “Ms. Ryans! Oh my gosh, you need to come home quick. Mr. Ryans- he’s not doing well! He collapsed on the way to the bathroom, and he’s not waking up!” 

   You start running faster, and then break into a sprint. You thought you would be there when he collapsed, holding his hand in yours, and sending him into a peaceful slumber that he would not wake from. 

   Within ten minutes, you reach your home, out of breath. There’s an ambulance outside already, and plenty of commoners surround the vicinity of your home. You roughly push your way through them and rush through the door, ignoring the protests of the paramedics. 

   “Let me see him!” you exclaim, attempting to bypass a particular stubborn man who stands in your way. 

   You can make out a pale arm lying at an odd angle on the floor. Other than that, you cannot make out any figure of the man that is your husband. The man that was your husband. 

   You pinch the inside of your wrist until tears spring into your eyes, and you let out a small sob. The male paramedic looks slightly alarmed, and places a gentle hand on your shoulder. 

   “Ma’am, I’m so sorry for your loss. My superior wishes me to inform you that we will be taking your husband to the hospital. You can visit him when the hospital calls you,” the male paramedic says.

   Your shoulders slump, the surprise rushing into your veins. He would spend his last days on the hospital bed surrounded by white, White, WHITE. He was supposed to spend his last days at home, next to you. 

You finally catch a glimpse of his pale, sleeping face as the paramedics walk past with him on a stretcher, sniffling deeply as you try to catch his hand briefly in yours. 

   With a final shake of your head, you walk out, only to collapse heavily on the steps to be comforted by your female neighbors. 

***

   You grasp his cold hand in yours, observing his still face. He looks dead. He looks like a skeleton. He looks ready to be put into a coffin. 

The difference is that he isn’t dead. 

   You hear the sound of footsteps outside the door, and quickly press a kiss into his forehead. You withdraw as the door swings open, the doctor striding in with a perplexed expression on his face. 

   “Mrs. Ryans, how are you doing?” he asks, checking the hospital monitor. 

   You smile half-heartedly. “Hanging in there. How is he?” you ask, brushing a gentle hand across Mark’s forehead. 

   He will never open his dark brown eyes again. 

   “As well as someone with thallium poisoning is doing,” he replies, his blue eyes fixed on you. 

   You start back, holding your hand to your mouth. “Poisoning?” you ask, your brown eyes wide with surprise. 

   The doctor nods gravely. “Yes. I will be contacting the police. They will begin an immediate investigation. I would say recommend you go home right now. The police will be there shortly.”

   You shake your head, looking down on the white linoleum floor. “It must be our maid. Of course it is. She’s always alone with him, just for those forty minutes I’m not home. I should have stayed at home, but I wanted those forty minutes to myself, you know?” you sob, your voice breaking.

   The doctor places a gentle hand on your back, guiding you at the door. “I wouldn’t rush so soon into conclusions. If it makes you feel better, I personally commend you for your vigilance. Have a safe drive home, Mrs. Ryans.”

   Within a few minutes, you arrive at your home. You never enjoyed the mansion. There were too many empty rooms, too many empty halls. You couldn’t see what Mark was doing, couldn’t see what Jane was doing; it made you nervous. 

   As you ordered, your estate attorney is already inside. A striking young man of twenty, you could never stop being seduced by his lovely sapphire blue eyes. But you put all that aside, curling your hair around your ear, and sit down heavily at the table, the portrait of a grieving wife. 

   “Mrs. Ryans, I’m so sorry for your loss,” he says, his caramel voice making your toes curl. 

   You sniffle, looking up at him with watery eyes. “He’s not gone yet. But the doctor says he only has a day to live. I just wanted to see the copy of the will so I could prepare everything.”

   The estate agent nods, his curly dark brown hair falling onto his eyes before he brushes it away quickly. “Of course. Here, there’s a copy.” He slides a crisp, clean sheet of paper towards you. 

   Your eyes hungrily devour the words, your smile beginning to fall. “I only get the house,” you say, your voice low and steady. 

   You can almost hear the audible gulp from the estate agent. “Yes, Mrs. Ryans. That seems so.”

   There’s a hatred burning within you as you read that he bequeathed at least half a million dollars to your maid, and the rest of the money to his sister and his family. Your hands slowly curl into a fist under the table as you look up at him underneath your eyelashes and paste a sad smile on. 

   “I spent all that time with him, you know? I took care of him everyday. Did you know the doctor says that he is dying from thallium poisoning? Ridiculous, though I wouldn’t put it past our maid to do something like that,” you scoff, burying your head into your hands.

   The estate agent moves next to you, placing a gentle arm around your shoulder. You look up at him, gazing into his blue eyes. “I just did so much for him, you know?”

   He smiles kindly. “If I were him, I would have given you everything. You deserve everything.”

   You smile kindly at him, running a soft hand down his jaw. “Thank you. Now, you need to go. I have to prepare for the funeral.” 

He leaves within a few minutes, a big lipstick mark on his cheek. The only sign that he had been here was the paper on the table.

   You take a couple of deep breaths, closing your eyes. You need green tea, yes, you do. Not coffee. That’s for the broken. 

   You begin to chuckle, the sound erupting deep from within and then emanating around the house. You had not expected Mark to give you only the house. Your maid is probably waiting somewhere, biding her time to snatch up all that money.

   You stand up after a while, taking another deep breath. You have to stay calm. Selling the house would go for a lot of money, more than Mark gave to the maid. Not as much as the money he gave to his family, however. 

   A knock on your door interrupts your thoughts, followed by a shout of “Police!”

   You sigh. The party arrived early, too early for you to put the house up on the market. You open the door, your mouth quivering when you see the group of policemen and women stand in front of the door, their black uniforms and shiny gold badges hurting your eyes. They have no sense of fashion. 

   You fake a deep sob, burying your head into your left hand. “I suppose you are here to search the house?”

   The policeman nods, letting his squadron move inside before turning to you. “I am sorry for what has happened, ma’am. But, as Dr. Langston should have told you, we have reason to suspect he was poisoned purposefully.”

   You look down, scuffing your shoes on the linoleum floor. “It must be my maid. That is the only person I would suspect.”

   The policeman nods. “Thank you for your input. If you could just stay here,” he trails off, moving around the house. 

   You sit prettily down on the couch, watching the swarm of police buzzing around. They will not find anything here. 

   You sigh again, this time out of thoughts about missed opportunities. 

   If only you sold the house sooner. 

***

   Your psychiatrist sits across from you. You smile at her, crossing your legs under the ridiculous poofy blue dress you are wearing. A picture of beauty and the fantastical combined. Courtesy of your dead husband’s sister. 

   Mark Ryans died far too late. 

   “Jane, how are you feeling?” she asks. 

   Her blonde hair is completely atrocious; there is no shine, no depth. Her blue eyes look like dull rocks. Her clothes are frumpy. 

   You shrug. “I suppose I am fine. How are you? You must be a bit upset, seeing the sad state you are in.”

   You see a flash cross your psychiatrist’s eyes, and resist the urge to laugh with victory. Who ever heard of a patient cross examining their psychiatrist? 

   “What did you do today? Anything new?” she asks sweetly. 

   You can see her gritted teeth beneath her chapped lips. You lean forward, perching your head upon your hand. “Well, I cleaned my room. Threw away all his things. Cleaned my cabinet and my “essential vitamins” bottle.” You make quotation marks with your hands when you say essential vitamins. 

   Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean by essential vitamins?”

   You smile, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Well, in reality, the essential vitamins bottle contains thallium. I gave a few drops to my dead husband every morning; he loved it in his coffee.”

   Her mouth drops open as she tries desperately to regain her posture. You watch her sputter like a fish. How on earth could a human could look so clumsy?

   You decide to help her out, sighing. “Love, you need to use conditioner. Your hair is looking quite limp.”

   Your psychiatrist stays sitting, her face becoming quite blank, and a fake smile adorning her lips. At least she looks a bit prettier when she smiles. 

   “Are you telling me you poisoned your husband?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. 

   You smile. “Officially, my maid poisoned my husband. Unofficially, I poisoned my husband. I don’t really care, to be honest. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.”

   Her eyebrows furrow as she writes something down on her clipboard. “So you don’t care if your husband is dead?”

   You shrug, pretending like you are thinking. “No, not really. I do regret not killing him sooner though. Would have done the trick much easily.”

   You stand up, waving at your psychiatrist. The clock is already at 1, and your session is over. “Ta, ta! I’ll see you tomorrow!”

   You step out into the sun, whistling happily. Today is a great day. 

And tomorrow you’re getting married to Ted Barnes, a self-made millionaire. 

What a wonderful week.