horror

The wine was wrongfully labeled,
and the woman had her fill.
It was poisoned by her husband,
but meant not for her but his lover.
So that when the woman died,
he was full of distress.
Because as much as he despised his wife,
He no longer longed for his mistress.
In the wake of her funeral,
After all rites were read.
When at least several moons had gone,
And several suns had crossed
When the woeful worries of his meaningless life,
Echoed among the dreams of the deceased.
That husband was reunited with wife,
When his mistress stabbed him to death.

American Chimera - rough opening

Motherhood is not guaranteed in the animal kingdom.  Even house cats can lack their maternal instincts; leaving their young to rot alongside the afterbirth.   They don’t have society bearing down on them to fulfill their roles.   And when the human child suckles at the teet of its mother it should be assumed that she loves it.  That she nurtures it out of some deep innate requirement.   That’s what I assumed when my wife brought my girls into this world.   It wasn’t the reality though.   I’ve been watching a lot of Animal Planet.   My oldest Cecilia used to love watching the show about the big cats.   As I stand over her grave right beside Bethany’s I can’t help but think about that lioness who abandoned her cub to be murdered by the new alpha male.  My wife Kimberly played both roles, that lioness and that alpha.   I haven’t seen her in a year.   The last time a jury of her peers saw fit to release her back into the world.   I was left without a role to fill, not husband, and not father.   I had failed in that area anyways.   Though how could I have known.  But, I should have seen.

That morning I pulled my face out of the sink and collapsed on the floor.  I’m naked and the linoleum is cold underneath me.   I’m gasping for air, which is the biggest disappointment because it means I’m still here.   There’s a moment then when I come back to, and I picture my children laughing, watching a parade.  Cecilia holding my hand at my side, and Bethany on my shoulders.  They're in little yellow sundresses as the fire truck blares its sirens.  My ears ring, a throbbing sort of hurt, but I don’t grimace I just smile.   It wasn’t so significant at the time but it is now.   I lift myself off from the floor and look at myself.  My eyes are bloodshot, and my nose drains snot against my lip.   I’m pitiful but don’t pity me.

When Cecilia was four she had fallen down the stairs to our basement.  My wife had been pregnant with Bethany then.   A load of laundry was in the basket of one arm and Cecilia was in the other.  She had slipped and fallen midway down.   The stairs weren’t carpeted and were too smooth.  I myself had slipped before.  I had meant to change them, get them fixed or something, and when I heard I beat myself about it.   My wife had almost died with my two babies along with her.  I felt lucky knowing that the cement floor hadn’t damaged them enough only scrapes and bruises.  Kimberly was crying when she told me the emergency room.   The baby was safe and I knew she felt guilty for overburdening herself.  I knew it then, but I don’t know so much now.

“I’m here now.”  I say to myself.  It’s my new mantra.  The therapist said it was better for me to be audible with my desire to be alive or I could slip into a depressive state.   Oops.

“I’m here now.”  I repeat to myself.  To that face in the mirror that looks back all contorted and broken hidden behind the clouds of steam that have stuck to the mirror.  “I’m here now.”  And so I am.  I grab my toothbrush and scrub at my teeth like I’m scratching an itch.   I rinse and smile, they look whiter than before.   “Fuck.”  It hardly matters if they are.  There is no one I want to impress, there is no quality that I want to keep straight, and clean.   My disheveled hair doesn’t bother me, but instinct compels me to put the proper gel in it and get it more flattened.   I don’t even want to shave but I do anyways, and my hairless face stares at back at me in judgement.  “Fuck off.”  I say to him.  Who does he even think he is?

“My name is Keith Marcum.  Last year my wife drowned my two girls in the bathtub while I was pulling a twelve hour shift.   Sorry, she “allegedly” drowned them.  Six months ago, the court said she was innocent.   Only one dissenter.   I guess she put on a good show.  She was a good actress.   After eight years of marriage she managed to fool me that she loved me.  Loved our girls.  You’d think carrying a fetus into maturation and squeezing it out and feeding and taking care of your baby that you’d I don’t know, not fucking kill them.  I’m sorry.  I just, I don’t talk very much about it.”  I stop as abruptly as I started.   The support group is for people who have lost children.  Usually miscarriages or tragic freak accidents.  Some SIDS victims.    I think I’m the only one whose wife murdered their children.  Most of them are women.

“Hello Keith.  Sorry for your loss.”  They all say it in unison like an orchestra of conducted sheep.  Already I know there’s some judgement hidden behind some of their eyes.  I can take it.  I’ve had to.