Narrative

By
It’s December 6, 2007. I’m glaring upon the king size bed. I glanced toward the clock which beamed 8:15. “They should be here soon,” I told him.
Every morning his routine was consistent. He would wake me at 8:00 sharp. Like a cricket I had vowed to jump at his every call through sickness and health till death do us part. Every morning, tired or not, I would trudge down the winded staircase to prepare his favorite and only preferable breakfast, honey combs.

I reached into the only golden cabinet that stood solo by the platinum refrigerator and pulled out an African ivory bowl with the name almighty inscribed in black ice on the bottom of the bowl. I gracefully opened the top slit of the honey comb box and cascaded it into the Almighty’s bowl. Next to apply was the whole milk. I seduced the milk onto the cereal like a hooker sweet talking her infamous prey. Last but most vital, I maneuvered my hand into the base of one of the granite drawers and extracted a silver spoon. The bullet to the gun, the knife to the wrist and the poison to the throat, I shivered the spoon into the cereal bowl and proceeded to trudge back up the stairs. I knocked twice and entered into his kingdom.
“Here you go babe.”
“Thank you.”

He began to eat. I watched him eat while trying not to watch him eat. What occurred next was like a chain reaction. First, the spoon, then his air, and last his heart. My back still turned away from the bed, my mind began to unravel like spools of ribbon words and images from that horrid night. Deep inside my cranial echoed the words that had advanced me to this point.
“I don’t love you.”
“You can keep the ring.”

I forced my body to turn and stare upon the bed which held my cryptic husband of eleven years. There he stood mute, like a five year old child caught stealing from a candy store. Approaching him with caution, I lifted the spoon from the marble floor and tossed it out the window. What I did next is beyond belief. I picked up the receiver and dialed 9 1 1.

Letting the receiver swing loose to its base, I faced my departed spouse and delicately said, “They should be here soon.” No time to waste, I manifested my personal belongings cluttered in a mahogany duffle bag and darted out of the boudoir. Down the winded stairs, adrenaline sinking my body like Venice, I arrive to the door and maneuver my hand towards the handle. However my motion is stunned by an impossible sight. The handle begins to move itself. Opening on someone else’s command, I peer beyond the exterior of the oak wood door and catch a glance at the mystic figure. Beaming like a school boy on leave, he says “Hi mom.”





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback