The Wife's Neighbor (A Novella)

Chapter 1

Content Warning: Strong Sexual Content, Violence and Profanity

Music. Her only escape from her useless husband. My Sharona played from Marcy's phone as she cleaned the kitchen counter.

Thoughts always swirled through her head as she prepared the kitchen for the inevitable return of her hubby of three years. Music. Her only escape from her useless husband. Thoughts always swirled through her head as she prepared the kitchen for the inevitable return of her hubby of three years. Sometimes I think about killing my husband. Tripping him down a flight a stairs or running him over, making it look like an accident. It seems too easy. Like he won't pay for the pain he puts me through. He won't know why I did it. He'll only know I did it, in his last fleeting moments of life. As he's looking up at me, eyes wide, blood pooling from the back of his head. It sounds poetic. I don't want poetic. I want to hurt. I want him to know he was scum. Simple solution would be a divorce. His brother who lives an hour away in the city of Boston is an FBI agent. Killing him would be foolish. Unless I could hide evidence. I want it to look like an accident, but I want him to suffer. It's a tough spot to be in. A spot that maybe more than one wife or girlfriend finds themselves in. How to make your husband know he's a jerk when words won't work. When threats of leaving won't work.

In stepped Jeffery Clemons. Slicked back hair, beard, wearing a nice suit and too much cologne.

Setting his briefcase down, he hung his suitcoat up and walked to the kitchen.

He loosened his tie. He's behind me. Smile. Don't roll your eyes. Don't stab him in the gut with the knife you have in your hand. Oh, to see that sharp blade go into his gut, then thrust it into his throat and watching him choke on blood and spit and whatever other bodily fluids are in him. Lovely sight. Can't happen. Poor me. Just cut veggies. Stay happy. Staring at his wife's ass in a nice-fitting dress, Jeff hugged Marcy and kissed her neck.

"How's my beautiful wife?" He smiled and rested his chin upon her shoulder.

"I'm well!" She chuckled gently. "Dinner is almost ready."

A steaming ham sat in the middle of the dining room table along with broccoli and potatoes. Silverware clanked on glass plates as Jeffery and Marcy indulged.

"Amazing dinner, dear." Jeff smiled looking across to his wife in a red dinner dress. He loves when I dress up. It feels so pointless. I married Jeff because he was old school. We met at a dinner party, and we seemed to like one another. I wanted to get away from technology, he wanted to be a breadwinner. Maybe going back to some sort of 'traditional' ideology would work. I thought maybe I wouldn't mind cooking and cleaning. In truth, I don't, but I do mind the way I'm treated.

He complimented my dress that night. So, I decided to always dress up. After our honeymoon, I made sure to buy sundresses and dresses of all sorts of colors and styles. I liked looking this way. It wasn't like he was forcing me at this point. I truly wanted to. I had worn casual, modern clothes my whole life and I wanted to try something different. Reinvent myself. Slip on a new persona. The persona of a loving wife who wants to support her husband.

This lasted for a few months into our marriage. One day I grew tired of the preparation and the heels and combing my hair every single morning. He almost hit me for it. Almost. Close enough for me to not talk to him the rest of the night.

I remember sitting in my bedroom, nearly crying. Had I married a man who would hit me? When we met, he seemed so kind. Paying for my drink, holding a car door for me, giving me a good night kiss and asking me on a date. Was Jeffery one of those men who put up a good front in public, but then revealed his inner demons when no one else was watching?

Marcy washed dishes as Jeffery opened the refrigerator to grab a bottle of beer. The home was neat, floors shined, the ceilings high enough to create echo. This home was the epitome of wealthy living.

The kitchen Marcy stood in was large and spacious, full of expensive pots and pans.

As she continued her routinely cleaning of plates and silverware, the sink made a loud clank and the water stopped. Then continued.

"Sink still isn't fixed?" Jeff questioned, leaning against the countertop where the coffee maker stood and a few feet from that, is where the sink sat.

"I gotta guy coming tomorrow." Marcy nodded.

"Good. No way I'm getting on my hands and knees only to get covered in filth. A poor person's job if you ask me." Jeff smirked finishing his beer.

Typical rich man bullshit. He probably never worked a job like that. Never did he have to deal with customers at a fast-food place or scrub toilets at a hospital. I can't say that to him. I can't let out my true thoughts. Hiding hate is hard to do. Visceral emotions are meant to be out in the open. Marcy ignored this comment and barely reacted as Jeffery snuck up behind her and wrapped his slender arms around her waist.

"You're so pretty." Kissing her neck, he spoke softly. He spoke to me like that the night we met. The night I thought this man was going to complete my life.

"Jeff, I really need to get these dishes cleaned." She tried to keep her voice polite. "I also need to clean this kitchen."

Stepping away, Jeff stood to Marcy's side and pushed her hard. Hard enough to send her tripping over her heels, she caught her balance by clinging onto the marble countertop.

"You never want to touch me." Jeff scorned, turning the sink off, watching her gaze at him in horror.

"You...hit me. You promised you'd never do that again." Venom filled Marcy's voice as she clenched her fists at her sides.

"Work's been stressful. Keeping this gorgeous house isn't easy. Especially when my wife is so damn ungrateful!" Jeff raised his voice an octave, then turned his back to her. He wants me to rub his shoulders. Calm him down. Kiss his cheek. Make sweet, passionate love. Tonight, will not be his lucky night.

The blonde-haired woman sighed and made her way upstairs, brushing past her husband who looked at his shoes in regret. It's all fake regret. He truly doesn't hate that he hit me. He hates that I reacted to getting hit this time. Instead of blaming myself.

In the upstairs bedroom, she stripped her dress and tossed it in a corner. Not caring if it got ripped or torn in the process. In only her bra and panties, she lied down with a deep sigh. Surrounding her are mirrors, to one side a bedside table with a music box and lamp. The floor is spotless. The bed so huge, it could easily fit three full grown adults. I hope to wake up. I hope this is some nightmare. Some long lasting, realistic, horrifying nightmare. Is it possible? Do I need to wake up? Is Jeff really sleeping by my side and not lamenting in the kitchen, without a word of apology?

She slaps herself. Lightly. Then slaps herself harder. Then...her final slap makes her cheek red. She feels the aftereffects of all three slaps in this moment. A tear falls from one of her eyes. Not from physical pain, but crying for the moment her lousy 'lover' enters the bedroom and she'll have no clue what he'll do next.