Not An Idiot

PROMPT: Write a short story with an unreliable narrator in a dying marriage.

My doom scrolling has gotten worse. I stand in my kitchen-waiting for my Nespresso-working out my thumb more than my ass. Ever since I gave up running, I've noticed the lower half of my body is looser than it used to be. At least my husband seems to think so. 

I can hear the coffee trickling into my "Merry Elfin Christmas" mug. My thumb swipes up and up, passing disturbing headline after disturbing headline. I really need to change my algorithm. 

My eyes zero in on the latest local, national and global headlines. The trickling sound in the background stops. My coffee is ready, but I don't look up. My eyes are glued to my phone screen, zeroing in on one of the local stories. 

"Missing Brooklyn runner, Ronnie Birch, found dead after 10-day search."

I read the headline seven more times or maybe eight. I'm not too sure. Oh my god, fuck. How is this possible? I didn't even know she was missing." My thumb is working overtime now, scrolling faster and faster. I’m trying to absorb as much information from the article as I can. 

Ronnie went for a run in a park less than a block away from her house. She was alone, and was last seen alive just before she entered the park after 5pm. After a series of unanswered calls and texts, Ronnie's friends and family launched a search. That search lasted ten days and led me to where I am now standing in my kitchen, reading about the death of my husband's mistress.

I look up. I reach for my Nespresso and chug everything in my Christmas mug. What I want is a drink that makes my body numb, but that can't happen. Not if I want to keep my kids. If this was six months ago, then I would have included my husband in my previous sentence, but marriage is a lot like drinking; only idiots commit to it for life. And I, Susan L. McKinley, am not an idiot.

I look back at the news article. Ronnie Birch, a thirty-year-old woman in the prime of her life, was discovered face-down in the dirt, two miles away from the running trail. She was seen with her sports bra ripped off and her shorts pulled down. 

I walk toward my living room, sharing my glances between the article in my hand and the bay window overlooking my version of Wisteria Lane. I can feel a resistance in my body, especially when I read how Ronnie died. Detectives said that it looked like she had been struck in the back of the head with a rock. The autopsy revealed that she had died of strangulation. 

The resistance in my body is growing; it's like I don't want to absorb the weight of what I'm reading. I'm already fat enough as it is. Stop joking, Su. This is serious. I inched closer to the bay window, looking out on our driveway. "Where the hell is his car?" I mutter.

My thumb is underneath the last paragraph of the article. Ronnie put up a ferocious fight against her attacker. Police officials announced a $10,000 reward for information leading up to the arrest of her killer. Pretty bad that people need to be incentivized to help.

I look at her photo in the article. She was beautiful. Bright smile, big eyes, olive skin, brunette hair. Everything my rich, horny husband loves. 

Wisteria Lane looks quieter than usual. The annoying kids who ride their bikes around the neighborhood must be at school. Mine are. Thankfully, they're old enough now to make their own breakfast and get on the bus without me. That doesn't explain where my husband is though. No way he helped the kids. 

"Bennett," I yell, "Are you home?"

I meander through our beige, lifeless home, yelling his name. "Bennet?" Still no answer. I work my way up toward the second floor, feeling the cold hardwood below my feet. The news of Ronnie's passing will hit Bennet hard, and I want to make sure I'm there for him. 

Our bedroom is at the end of the hallway. The life we have built together lives on the walls around me. The family portraits of our wedding day and the birth of our children give me temporary peace. That peace is disrupted when I realize the weapon he used to blow it all up rests in the palm of my hand. I know what he will say to that. He will say something snarky like, "It wasn't Ronnie. Your drinking ruined our marriage." So, I drink, what's the big deal? Like I said earlier, only idiots drink for life. And I, Su, am not an idiot.

I'm standing in the doorframe between our master bedroom and the hallway. "Oh, there you are," I say. My husband is lying in our bed. “Where is your car, Bennet?” I ask him, stepping into the room. Bennet doesn’t like it when I take care of him, but he needed his rest. Despite our marriage woes, I still care about him, so I made sure he spent the night and the morning in bed. I giggle. I can’t believe I forgot he was up here.

Bennet darts a look at me. The one that says, stop laughing and untie me from the bed. I won’t untie him, because he still looks tired. We need to talk about Ronnie though, so I remove the cloth from his mouth. I reach for the fabric that his teeth are chewing down on, and I pull it away fast.

Bennet’s wrists are tied to our headboard. He is dressed in his briefs, and his middle-aged belly is drooping over his pant line. And he thinks I am getting loose? Even though Bennet only has a few strands of hair left, his bedhead looks cute. I’m reminded of the many mornings we woke up together, in love.

“You, stupid bitch,” he says in a strong yet defeated tone, “untie me.”

“Where’s your car, Bennet?” I ask again.

“It’s in the driveway,” he fires back with a red face, looking at me with wider eyes, “why are you laughing?”

He’s right. I am laughing. Nothing about my morning has been funny. Sometimes, when there is nothing to laugh about it, I find humor anyway. Like right now. I’m laughing, because my husband has no idea what’s about hitting him.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but your mistress is dead. They found her body.”

Rather than recalling the R-rated details, I show him the article and scroll for him. As he reads the article, I watch his eyes widen even more. His shoulders start to shake, then he drops his chin to his chest. He is crying. Bennet McKinley is fucking crying for this whore. “You’re pathetic,” I say, lifting his chin with my hands, “crying for the woman you killed?”

            “I didn’t kill her, and you know that,” he says. Bennet lunges at me with his shoulders, but he doesn’t get too far. I never liked sailing with Bennet, but I always paid attention to the knots. Hence, why he can’t move. I back away, only half a foot or so. “You’re drunk,” Bennet shouts through his sniffles, “I can smell it on your breath.”

This man is obsessed with my drinking habits. I laugh again, but this time I don’t have to find humor where there isn’t any. I walk to the bureau and open the top drawer. I pull out a pair of underwear, along with a bottle from my secret stash. 100% proof vodka is always a good choice. 

“You did kill her, Bennet. You knew what an affair would do to our marriage. To me,” I turn around and walk back toward the bed, “and yet, you still went through with it anyway. Ronnie Birch didn’t stand a chance against our love, did she?”

                        “What did you do?” Bennet yells, squirming in the bed, trying to free himself.

                        “I did what any reasonable woman would do,” I say, plopping myself back onto the bed, showing him the unclean, filthy undies in my hand, gripping the fifth of vodka in my other hand, “I saved myself. With the help of some hired friends, of course. I wanted to give you these though, as a token.”

            I tuck the undies inside his briefs, and watch his protruding belly eat them. “Your cars not here. And it will eventually be found near where her body was. And her DNA is all over it,” I say, opening the bottle of vodka, annoyed I must waste it on Bennet.

                        “You’re insane, Su. Get me the hell out of here.”

                        “No,” I giggle.

                        “When I get out of here-which I will-I will tell the police what is really going on. How my wife went off her meds, can’t take care of herself, hallucinates, can’t hold a job and worst of all, is a fucking alcoholic.”

            And there is it. What he really thinks about me. I always knew the truth, but he could never vocalize it in such a poetic way. I stand up and begin to dump the vodka all over the bed where we conceived our children and the idea that we were ever in love.

                        “What are you doing?” he asks, repeatedly, “come on, Su. Untie me. We can work through this.”

            I walk back toward the doorframe, and away from the only life I have ever known. “Only idiots drink for life, Bennet”, I continue, pulling a match from my pocket. “And I, Sue McKinley, am not an idiot.”

I light the match, and head back to my Merry Elfin Christmas mug. Time for another cup.