Tales from the Yeller House: A Horror Collection

The Other White Meat

    Nathan Ward hadn't meant to kill his wife.
    It was an accident. At least, that's what he told himself. One minute, Melissa was sitting across from him, her blonde head bent over her plate of spaghetti, making slurping noises that resounded in his mind and reddened his vision.
    The next, her head was thrown back. She might have been laughing, had it not been for the deep gash that sliced her throat in two. Blood poured from the fresh wound and pooled in the valley between her breasts, visible thanks to the help of her push-up bra and v-neck sweater.
    Nathan didn't remember moving from his chair. He couldn't recall hearing any sound from Melissa other than the faint clatter of her fork against the china and the occasional slurp. Somehow, though, he'd ended up with a knife in his hand. And not just any knife. Oh, no. This one was special. Small chunks of skin clung to the serrated blade, and steady droplets of blood dripped to the white tile floor.
    Nathan stood, holding to the antique table for support. He had to do something; the maid would be in to clear the dinner plates soon. But what to do? He was too lightheaded to hide the body, and nauseous besides. He patted the pocket of his leather jacket and felt the familiar rectangle. You know Missy will kill you if she catches you smoking again, his conscience piped; it must not have received the message that Missy was dead. The irony wasn't lost on Nathan. He clamped a hand over his mouth to contain the hysterical laughter that bubbled in his throat. He tapped a Marlboro from the pack and lit it, savoring the head rush. He slid the pack back into the pocket, and his hand brushed cold metal.
    He pulled out a small handgun.
What the...? The Wards didn't own guns. Why would they need them, when their home and property was protected by a state-of-the-art security system? He turned the piece over in his hand. To his surprise, the gun was devoid of any markings. No stamp indicating caliber or manufacturer, nothing. Don't guns usually have some kind of safety feature on them? This one obviously didn't.
    He checked to see if the gun was loaded. The faint click echoed in the spacious dining room, and Nathan jumped. He hid the gun behind his back, forgetting about his de as wife mere feet from him, and froze. When he was certain no one was coming, he pulled the gun back out and continued his inspection.
    One bullet gleamed in the overhead lights.
Russian roulette. He'd never played, but hey, what did he have to lose? His wife was dead, and it was a matter of time before he was behind bars, or worse, in a psychiatric ward. Okay, I'll spin the chamber, put the gun to my head, and pull the trigger. If I don't die, I'll call the cops and turn myself in. It made perfect sense in his scattered mind, but his hands still shook. He put his cigarette out on Missy's plate, a last fuck you to the bitch, and spun the chamber. He closed the gun without looking and pressed the cold steel barrel to his temple. He used his thumb to pull the hammer back until it clicked, and rested his index finger on the trigger.
You can do this. Be a man.
    He pulled the trigger and sent the bullet through his brain. It exited behind his left ear, lodging in the immaculate wall and splattering it with chunks of gray and a faint red spray. Nathan collapsed. He was dead before he hit the floor.
    No, Nathan Ward hadn't meant to kill his wife, or himself, but they were both dead, with the knife and gun nowhere to be found.