Unhappy in their own way

When he opened his eyes, he felt as if he had ascended to heaven.

This was some sort of cosmic irony, for as soon as Juan Del Toro had shaken off the crustiness of sleep and grasped the whole picture, he discovered that he had been murdered by his wife, Eleanora De Soledad, who had slit his throat with the same razor she used to shave his beard.

As he gazed at the image of his wife, lying in bed next to his earthly body, dressed in a white satin sleep, the ends of which were stained with his blood; He became filled with a wave of burning anger. That anger bubbled its way out of his lower intestine, into his stomach, and burned his throat, expelling itself in a violent shout, “You wicked bitch!” He did not expect a tired response, “you deserved it.” Incensed, he leapt at her and grasped at her throat, but his hands connected instead of finding skin and bone. A shrill laugh filled the room. “You stupid bastard. You are dead! The dead cannot touch the living.” He did his best to ignore her taunts and grasped at her repeatedly, but to no avail, for every time he tried, his hands would pass through her body.

It was an embarrassing way to die. He had been a hero of the revolution, a self-made man, a paragon, a superman, a symbol of what the common man could do with enough grit and determination, an island entire in himself. Yet it had been his wife who had been the one to kill him. A lesser being, someone beneath him, who was to be subservient in all matters. All these thoughts swirled in his mind as he looked around the room and discovered the instruments that Elenanora De Soledad had used to facilitate his death.

On the side table, resting against a half-empty glass of whisky, was a vial of laudanum with the seal cracked open; on his chest lay the straight razor with the palm handle that had been used to slit his throat, and there were the hands of his wife which he had dismissed as small, delicate, fragile, and useless, now bathed in his blood. “Why do you not wash your hands, woman? Does the blood not bother you?” She shook her head no and examined her hands. How beautiful they were in the pale yellow glow of the kerosene lamp! How elegantly had the blood of the bastard polished her nails a bright ruby colour, and how smooth her skin looked, the blood coating her hands, becoming embedded under her cuticles, sticking in between the webbing of her fingers, seeping into the lines of her palms, acting as a sort of protective varnish. She smiled a small self-satisfied smile that lightly turned the corners of her cheeks.

As she examined her hands, her mind began to drift to the previous night and about how easy it had been to kill him. She had been an exceptional actress, playing the role of the dutiful wife, fawning over him, rejoicing when he returned home later than usual, preparing his dinner, offering to massage his feet. All of these were part of an act, a ploy to get him to relax and to lower his defenses. It worked. He was ignorant to her true intentions, to the burning hatred that lingered behind her practiced doe eyes, and as the night went on, and her husband had gone to the bathroom to shower and to retire for bed, she put her plan into motion, lacing his usual drink, a glass of whisky with ice with laudanum, taking care to remove a few ice cubes as not to arouse suspicion. And as they lay next to each other in bed, her husband dead asleep, his sleep aided by the laudanum, she was wide awake behind her closed eyes, eager, nervous, yet patient, biding her time, when she knew that no force in heaven or hell could wake him. Then at around three o’clock, she slipped out of bed, walked over to the bathroom, retrieved the razor, and slit his throat.

She remembered the act with delight. How deftly she had held the razor in her hands, how tender the flesh of his neck was as she cut it open with one swift motion, how his eyes closed behind his eyelids watered, how his body involuntarily squirmed and struggled uselessly, and how his snores became wet and bubbly with blood, transforming into pained gurgles that lasted for a glorious five minutes, until finally with no way for the blood to reach his brain, her husband, the liar, the cheater, the bastard, the idiot, died in his sleep. She laughed a harsh laugh, and then her whole body began to cry.

“Why do you cry, woman? You have killed me. You have won. Is that not what you wanted?” the voice of the ghost was brash and mocking. The crying woman looked up at the spirit with snot in her nose and eyes red from crying, “This is what you wanted. You could not be free from me in this life, so you made me kill you so that you could be free from me. He could not respond. All the anger he had started with was gone, replaced with a burning emptiness and an icy sense of guilt.

“Did you not love me?” she asked in between sobbing breaths, “was I not good enough for you?” She stared at him with tired eyes, eyes red from nights of worry, waiting for his response. He averted his gaze. He could not answer. He had loved her once when she had been young and pretty, but time and motherhood had aged her, and he had grown bored and disgusted by the natural processes of time, seeking out more youthful and energetic girls even as he grew older and impotent. He had tried his best to keep these affairs secret, feeding her stories of business meetings, and invitations to dinners and nightcaps by friends after work, taking care not to be seen in public with his mistresses, using aliases and disguises. Still, she knew the truth, and he did not care that she did.

They remained like this for a time, the wife crying into herself on the bed and the husband sitting in a chair, the memories of their time together and the lies he had told flashing behind his dead eyes. “I loved you. Did you know that?” Elenora De Soledad sobbed in between deep breaths. “I knew.” Juan Del toro responded. “Did you love me?” another long sob. “I did.” He caught his breath. “I loved you, but I did not respect you. I am sorry for it all.” She collapsed into herself.

“I did not want to kill you.” he took a long breath. “I know.” she breathed sharply in between sobs. “Do you forgive me? He inhaled softly. “I do.” Outside, a cock crowed to signal the approaching morning. Gentle dawn was on the horizon. The bluish darkness of the night was mixed to make lavender by the golden light of the sun before being burned orange by the full power of her celestial majesty. And as the moon began to fade and the sun took her rightful place as the queen of the day, Juan Del toro, the repentant bastard, began to feel himself disappearing, his limbs growing numb and slowly fading from this world. Eleanora De Soledad noticed this and reached her blood-soaked hand out to him. He extended his arm out and rested his fading palm on hers, and although the borders of life and death had separated them, they interlocked fingers for one last time. She looked up at him and smiled a sad, reconciliatory smile. He met her gaze and returned her smile.