Darkness, Darling
Darkness.
Mounds of earth fill my eyes, fill my mouth, fill my nostrils. Stuck down my throat, suffocating me. My eyelids struggle to open in the darkness. I choke on the earth. I struggle, I fight to get clear: my limbs come alive and I scratch and claw my way upwards till I break into the light of the morning sun.
Earth mixed with dead leaves fall out of my eyes and I blink till I no longer see the blurry sky. I vomit globs of dirt while still clawing my way out the unmarked grave that until then, had been my home. My crypt. My feet push me to the surface. I inhale a throaty gasp, sucking in the cold, damp air. My fingers find warmth in the wet grass. The last slick gob of rotten earth dribbles out of my mouth and I let out a croak. I retch and spit on the ground several consecutive times. The taste of my grave does not leave.
I’m alive. Barely.
I rise to my feet. Stagger. My toes hug the earth, acquiring better stance. My lungs soak in the air. My eyes roll around slick in their sockets till they focus upon the familiar house that’s in front of me.
I walk with a grim saunter towards the house. My ears pick out chirping crickets, singing birds, the crow of a rooster in the yonder; the wind howling a cold breeze, cooling my rotten skin.
The back-door looms before me. I let myself in.
The house appears empty, though I could be wrong. There’s a noise coming from beyond the kitchen, down the hall. I shuffle towards the sound. I see my reflection in a mirror and I stop and gasp. I’m nothing but sallow skin and bones; my clothes hang in tatters on my gaunt frame. I stink of death. It occurs to me the fiend responsible for this; he is the one I need to find.
I continue down the hallway. Beside me is a flight of stairs. Beyond the stairs is a doorway to the left; the noise is coming from that doorway.
I peep beyond the doorway and my heart seems to come back alive when I sight him. He’s sat on his favourite chair with his feet crossed on a coffee table in front of him, munching on popcorn from a bowl, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. The TV is on; a movie is playing. The fool has no idea. I creep back to the kitchen, grab a carving knife, and quietly slip back into the living room.
“Hi darling,” I croak.
The bastard looks over at me and his mouth falls open. Chewed bits of popcorn fall out his mouth.
I totter closer to him, feeling the weight of the knife in my fist.
“Missed me?”
“My God.” He shoots on to his feet. His bowl falls and bounces across the floor, popcorn goes everywhere. “It can’t be. You’re dead! I FUCKING KILLED YOU!”
“Guess I’d best return the favour then.”
I close in on him. He attempts to run, but I slash at his legs and pull him back by his hair.
He scrambles over the couch.
He screams.
He kicks out at me. Still I advance, twirling my knife.
I slice the back of his thigh. He howls in pain; blood squirts across the carpet. He throws his hands at me and begs for his life. I ram the knife into his gut. He squeals and blood gushes over himself. I stab and stab and he screams and screams.
I jam it in his throat, silencing him.
I find a big refuse bag in an alcove beside the kitchen and wrap him up in it. I tie it up, sealing him inside, then drag him out of the room, leaving a long smear of blood, and my muddy footprints.
Out the backdoor I grab a shovel, still wet with dug earth, and together we journey back to the hole he left me in. I dig a wider hole, big enough to contain his frame, and once I finish, I kick him inside. I cover him up nice and neat. Just like he did me.
I return to the house, feeling better with myself; the world feels great actually. I ditch the shovel, get out of my tattered clothes and wash the earth and blood off me. I get into fresh clothes then go downstairs, get a mop and a bucket of detergent and clean up the splatters and trails of blood and guts. I trash the popcorn and decide to make myself a fresh bowl.
The movie’s still playing.
I sit down to watch it and eat my popcorn.
Hours later the movie’s long since finished and I turn when I hear a noise in the room.
My husband is standing near the doorway, covered in dirt and mud; a ghoulish grin on his torn lips. There’s the gory gaping hole where I had carved out his jugular and his head is hanging low like a marionette detached from its shoulders. His eyes ogle me with hate feverish madness. I see the shovel in his hand. The same shovel that’s now buried us both.
“Hiya honey,” crumbling clods of earth fall out of his mouth. “I found something to help spice up our marriage.”
He advances towards me.
And just like that, it begins all over again.
Till death do us part.
