The Last Word

 

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Dry Chicken

I had only recently started watching Frank out of the corner of my eye whenever I was in the kitchen. It was a practice I had to be discreet about. He never liked looking into my eyes especially during those gruesome scenes in the bedroom when he forced me onto my hands and knees on his bed as I lied there like a rag doll with my head buried into a pillow. Not like I needed to breathe. I was nothing more but his pleasure device, a flimsy piece of silicone that he would toss right back into the drawer of the nightstand whenever he was finished thrusting inside of me so hard that I would have to lock myself into the bathroom afterwards just to weep quietly.

His kitchen was probably the only room inside his house that he felt most comfortable for me to be in probably because he could keep his eyes on me. For me, it felt more like a prison, or what I would imagine a prison feeling like than a kitchen. Even though all the windows were able to swing open just enough to catch a gentle breeze from the freedom that blew about, I couldn’t help but imagine there being actual iron bars cascading over them. A grisly reminder that I was an object he has grown tired of, a mere possession, a helpless woman who was trapped in a trivial, menial and unfulfilling life.

I watched that fat oaf while I scrubbed the pots and pans before supper thumbing through the sports section of the Minneapolis Star Tribune. He made me feel more repulsed by the second and it didn’t matter if it was the way he was sitting and how he would lean into one side to fart or the way his tongue draped over his burly lips like a Neanderthal. But on that particular night,  he had turned to me and smiled. But that was no smile, it was an arrogant crack that rippled beneath the surface of his unkempt beard. It was the devil’s smile.

“Git me another beer, will ya?” He barked.

“W-what kind do you want?”

“I only have one kind, stupid! Which one do ya think? The Pabst!” He snorted. “Now go make yourself useful and bring me that damn beer! And when the hell is dinner gonna be done? God you’re worse than an old woman!”

“Sure,” I said but almost too sternly, “dinner’s already done.”

“Don’t you talk back to me, woman! I don’t have all day waiting for you to dilly dally in the kitchen doing all your womanly stuff!” He laughed. “You’ll have plenty of time to scrub those pots later when I watch the news. I don’t know what the hell you do all day when I’m at work, but my god you’re slower than molasses!”

I had no choice but to “fetch” his beer, but only out of fear of what he might do to me. Him striking me was nothing new. The man was obviously inept and lazy. I mean, even the way he dressed himself was disgusting. I certainly never taught him that but then again any of my suggestions had always gone in one ear and out the other. His jeans had holes in them along with two brown stains that stretched from his crotch down to his knees, and then he was wearing that god awful brown hooded sweatshirt that reeked of sweat, beer and stale cigarette smoke. I don’t remember the last time he allowed that thing to be washed.

“What the hell is wrong with you today? Are you on your fucking period again? Where’s my damn beer?” He said pointing towards the fridge even though it was only ten feet away. Heaven forbid as it would kill him if he had to waddle over to it, and gasp, reach inside and grab it himself. “Why aren’t you fixing me a plate?”

“I just took the chicken out of the oven. It has too cool first honey.”

“I don’t fucking care if I have to blow it myself! I’m fucking hungry!”

“I’ll fix you a plate—“

“God damn right you will! Right after you fetch me that beer like I’ve asked you for the hundredth time!”

“I can only do so many things at a time,” I said reaching into the refrigerator.

“Well maybe you should try. I have to do it at work, why can’t you here at home?”

“Here’s your beer,” I said holding it in front of him but he did one of those up-down eye rolls with that contemptuous smirk of his.

“What? You’re not going to open it for me?”

“Sorry—how about an ice cold mug to go with that?”

“Was that a hint of sarcasm? No! I don’t need no damn mug! Now fix me a plate of your crap. I’m hungry!”

"Yes dear."

Frank always ignored me over dinner. Either he would look down at his plate like he was a spoiled three year old looking down at his vegetables or he would casually pick up the sports section of the newspaper once again and continue reading. Every now and then he would grunt before shoveling a heaping mound of food into his mouth. The fat man ate with his mouth open, smacking his lips together like a cow chews on cud. I would try to eat but the sound of him swallowing down his slop made me cringe, and it was the only thing I could ever think about.

I wanted him to start choking on a splintered bone as it gouged into the lining of his esophagus so that he wouldn’t know if he was choking on the bone or on his own blood. I imagined how he would beg for his life, expecting me to be right there to save him while he thrashed his arms about in the air. But I would just continue to watch the pathetic slob grapple his neck with his bear-like hands in a desperate attempt to dislodge the bone out of his throat, and after countless unsuccessful attempts, his face would turn into the color of a blueberry before the fat man collapsed onto the floor, dead, but with his eyes wide open so they can catch a reflection of me hovering over his body with a grin on my face. But that didn't happen.

“This chicken turned out very nice,” I said trying to get a conversation started even though I knew I would have better luck talking to a toaster, or even the oven than talking to him.

“I don’t think so!” he spat chasing the food down his gullet with beer. “You could’ve used less spice or whatever the hell you sprinkled all over it. The chicken’s dry too!”

“It’s thyme. I thought I would try something new. My piece of chicken is just fine.”

“You know I don’t like trying new things! Why the hell would you try something new? Sprinkle it over your own damn fucking pieces! Jesus, woman! Oh, so you give me the dry piece?”

His jaw clenched and his eyes widened to the point I thought his pupils were going to explode as he began shaking his head.

“I’m sorry.”

“Would’ve been nice if you could’ve made me a better meal.”

“I love you," I lied.

But there was no response from him. He glared at me but that was about it. There was no love from him, but I seemed to have always forgotten that I was mere property. Nothing was ever good enough, and the more I tried the more his hands turned into fists and the more his voice trembled like thunder. I was trapped in that life and the only one I had to blame was myself. I didn’t have a job or a savings that I could have used to pull myself out of the grave he had dug for me, a grave that dug deeper and deeper until the sunlit sky above looked like a small pin prick. I also had no friends, well nobody I could trust anyway because everybody else loved Frank, and who in a small town of five hundred people would believe me if I had told them about him? Frank threatened to make my life a living hell if I ever thought of divorcing him. He owned everything. I owned nothing. I was nothing.

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Meat Loaf

Frank was called into work that Saturday morning. Apparently something had happened to his foreman at Garrets Construction and because he was an assistant manager he was required to take his place. I pretended to have been saddened that he was going to be gone but deep down inside I was jumping with joy. I was relieved and ecstatic because it was the only time I had ever felt safe, even though it was only a temporary relief.

I sat down at the kitchen table after he left and gazed out the window while I drank my coffee. My eyes were locked onto the rising sun. Golden flares skipped across the tree tops as birds soared through the heavens bathing in its majesty. It was during that brief moment of paralysis I wondered what freedom had felt like. How it would feel to just pick my life up at any given moment and fly away. I would never return because the memories made inside his house were haunting; memories that skulked about even when I wasn’t looking. They lurked in the deepest corners of the house from the brightest corridor to the darkest crevice. His house was going to be the death of me.

The one day I thought I was going to surprise him with meatloaf, peanut butter cookies which were his favorite and serve him wearing the red lace lingerie he had bought for me on our second anniversary turned out to be a complete waste of time. He was always working late , making up excuses along the way like the one time he said he had to pick up his foreman’s kid from the airport. I knew what he was doing. He was fooling around with the other women he worked with. But what did I know? I was just his stupid housewife, a silly little homemaker that did womanly kitchen things while he was out having the time of his life. He didn’t care to understand the endless work I did inside his house. He claimed I have done nothing.

Frank staggered in through the front door at about a quarter to nine and he somehow managed to bypass the cookies I laid out in the foyer where I knew he would find them. The man didn’t even bother taking off his boots. He didn't care. He just came storming in, tracking in dirt from the outside over the floors I had scrubbed not once but twice. I decided to not say anything and just let it go.

“Oh, good! You’re home! I missed you!” I said.

He toddled over to the refrigerator and reached inside of it for a beer. I could tell he had been drinking again. But just as he was about to sit down at the table he turned to me. I wasn’t sure how to read his facial expression but he seemed more disturbed than excited.

“You’re looking slutty tonight,” he said chugging his beer.

“I wanted to surprise you,” I said kissing him on the cheek. “Do you like it?”

“I’m tired. You know I don’t like surprises!" He said before sitting down. "So, what crap did you make for me today?”

“I made your favorite.”

“Then why the hell isn’t it on the table like it should be?”

“Well, I didn’t want the food to get—“

“Don’t you fucking talk back at me, woman! Fix me a fucking plate right fucking now! I’m hungry.”

“I was just trying to tell you that I didn’t want it to get cold.”

“Rose, I don’t give a shit if it was colder than ice or hotter than the sun. Just fix me a plate of that shit food of yours. I'm hungry and I'm tired. ”

“It’s meatloaf.”

He chuckled. “Then bring out the ketchup because you obviously don’t make it right! In fact, you don’t do anything right. Just last week you screwed up on the laundry by not drying my underwear! I work in construction. A man needs clean underwear, you know! Why are you just standing there? Get me my food!

I nodded my head and just as I was sliding my hand into an oven mitt, I saw a glint of light reflecting off the butcher’s knife right by the sink. It sparked an idea I never once thought about it.

“So Agnes gave me this new recipe to try. It’s a French cuisine that actually looks pretty tasty,” I said reaching for the plates in the cupboard beside the kitchen sink.

“Who the hell cares? I hate her and I ain’t going to let some old crazy bat influence your already shitty cooking, and the hell you’ll make it for yourself and waste my damn food! Christ woman, you're just about as crazy as she is!"

Frank may have taken away my dignity, but he no longer owned my life. I stood there clenching my hands as hard as I could until my fingernails dug into the palms of my hands drawing blood as he continued grumbling. For years I have rolled with his punches and verbal attacks that have reduced me down to practically nothing. For years I have put up with the fact that every single time we had sex, I didn’t want it! I was tired of getting raped. I was tired of his laziness and his angry demands. It was time. I reached for the knife and carried it behind my back as I walked over to the table with his plate of food.

“Here you go dear. I even put extra ketchup on it for you so you don’t have to.”

He looked down at the food with pursed lips.

“I hope you fucking like it!” I said.

Before he could snarl at me I lodged that knife deep into his back and as far as it would let me go. The fat man whaled about on his chair, screaming hysterically while twisting the knife out of him so I could stab him again.

The man’s head was dead weight as it fell right into his meat loaf and the only thing I could think was how much of a waste it was for me to go through all of that work to have him destroy a perfectly good meal. His mouth gurgled with blood as I sat down across from him and for the first time in my life I could actually eat in peace without hearing his assaults or fearing when he was going to strike me, or fearing when he was going to lay his hands on me and feel me up from under my skirt like I was nothing more than a slave.

I looked down at the blood-soaked floor and back into his lifeless eyes which were still open and in horror.

“I guess I’m going to have to clean this mess up too, huh?” I laughed.

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