To Kill A Nagging Wife

Ben had had it. He was at the end of his rope. For four years, he had tolerated the constant nit-picking. The non-stop verbal vomiting that spewed from the ever-open mouth of his wife, Andrea, had led him to not only ponder the thought of murder, but to actually act on the impulse.

It was a simple plan, really. He would cut her head off with a machete, bury the remains in the backyard and pave a BBQ patio over the makeshift grave. He thought about other methods. Poisoning. Strangulation. Gunshot to the brain. Smothering her in her sleep. These would suffice, but he thoroughly enjoyed the thought of that miserable, negative mouth being permanently separated from the cruel brain that powered it.

And so, decapitation it would be.

Andrea returned home at 6:30 pm following her usual "no boys allowed" after-work happy hour ritual. Ben had gone about his business of doing the dishes, cleaning the cat box and making supper.

"This turkey is salty. What is it with you and salty food?" The beast said, shoveling more salty bird into her gullet. "Jenni's husband is a wonderful cook. Lucky her. I had to go and marry Chef Boy Tardee."

Ben had given up defending himself long ago. Tonight, however, he was particularly quiet amidst the verbal assault. He was peaceful and still.

After Andrea had finished off every last ounce of the turkey, she refilled her martini glass with straight bottom-shelf gin and flopped down onto the couch. She flipped through the channels on the TV. "Hey, look. Your stupid Discovery channel show is on. Too bad." She directly entered three digits into the jumbo-sized remote and settled in for her favorite Hollywood gossip show.

Ben decided now was the time. After all, it's better to die while you are doing something you enjoy. Everyone says so.

He quietly grabbed the freshly-sharpened machete from the closet in the hall. He hid it there before the beast came home. His heart began to pound. He felt dizzy but not weak. In fact he hadn't felt this strong in years. As he inched toward his, soon-to-be-late-wife he bore his fingers into the handle so deeply that it burned. He stood directly behind her.

"I don't suppose you remembered to pay for the......."

SLICE

There was an unpleasant squeak from the open throat. Which came as no surprise to Ben. Nothing pleasant ever came out of that throat. The amount of blood was staggering. It sprayed from the meaty hole, where Andrea's head used to be, like a water feature at a ritzy Las Vegas hotel. Slowly the fountain recessed back into the meaty hole.



Ben dropped the machete.



"Well, dear.....I can't say that I will miss you....but-"



"I....my.....my head......" Andrea's severed head muttered through a watery, blood-filled gurgle.



Ben's heart stopped cold. His wife's head was 6 feet away from the body it once belonged to. It really should not be talking.



"oh.......my fucking head!" Andrea's head yelled. "You cut off my head?"



Ben felt his knees give out under him and down he went. Andreas's body slumped off of the couch and onto the floor. Her head swiveled around, like some nightmarish weeble-wobble, to face her husband.



"How fucking dare you?! You had no right to do that! You pathetic little boy! So what? You thought you'd just kill me and that would be that? Ha!"



"....you are dead.....you should be quiet." Ben whispered in disbelief.



"Dead? Ha! Do I look fucking dead to you? You pathetic piece of shit! You can't kill a harmless woman in cold blood? You imbecile!"



"You should be quiet!" Ben shouted. He crawled over to Andrea's head and pulled it up by the hair.



"Oww! That hurts, you retard! Put me back on my body right now!"



Ben ran, with the dripping head, into the kitchen. He frantically threw open the cupboards looking for the Glad bags. Finally he found them.



"Oh....oh don't you fucking dare!" The nagging, dripping head squawked.



Ben dropped the head into the black bag and tied it up tightly. He ran to the backyard, grabbed a spade and dug the hell out of a head-sized grave. He could hear his wife mumbling something or other through the bag. Finally, he felt the hole was deep enough to toss the bag into. Once the head was securely interred, Ben ran into house for the body.



Exhausted, Ben patted down the last bumps of dirt over the grave of his beloved wife. He exhaled deeply and began to laugh.



He was too tired to mop up the blood in the living room, so he left it until morning.



The sunrise of the following day felt sweet and new upon Ben's face. He lay in bed for a while marveling at the brilliant feeling of freedom that was sweeping over him. His bliss was soon interrupted by a mesh of voices coming from the backyard. Three, maybe four females were talking just outside his bedroom window. He panicked. Did the neighbors see? It was possible. He surely wasn't overly cautious about the whole affair. He dashed out of bed, draped his bathrobe over himself and headed to the backyard.



He slowly opened the backdoor and peeked out toward the voices. There was nobody there. But the voices grew louder and louder. He walked out into blaring morning sun. His eyes adjusted slowly. He inspected the grave. To his bewilderment, it was covered with daisies. Last night, it was a bed of dirt, and now it looked like a prize winning garden. He approached the flowers with caution. Suddenly, the voices stopped. The flowers all turned to face Ben. Every single daisy bore the likeness of Andrea's face.

Ben swallowed loudly. He couldn't believe it. It wasn't possible.

All at once, the Andrea daisies started nagging. "You miserable little shit!" "You will never be rid of me!" "You are worthless!" "...my life was not..." "....son of a bitch..." "...see you hang for this..." "...can't do anything right!"

The voices grew louder and louder. Ben ran to the shed and returned with a pair of loppers. He maniacally lopped off the head of ever last nagging daisy, until finally they were silenced. But not for long. The lopped off daisies continued to nag and belittle Ben. They floated atop the grass blades and continued to torment the poor murderer.

Ben ran to the garage and returned with a gas can and some matches.

"You should really be quiet!" He yelled through gritted teeth as he dumped gasoline over the nagging clippings.

He flicked a match onto the decapitated daisies and quickly they were charred into ashes. The ashes floated up into the air and Ben breathed them in. He choked on the smoke and headed back inside.

The voices continued. Now he could feel them resonating throughout his entire body. Echoing off of every bend of his skull. The microscopic naggers were coursing through his veins. He screamed in agony, but he could not hear it over the deafening voices. He ran to the bedroom and pulled out a small safe from under the bed. He dialed the combination, swung open the metal door and pulled out a small caliber handgun. He loaded the gun, laid on the bed and wept over his condition.

He could see no other escape. He said a quick, generic prayer and lifted the gun to his tear drenched face.

He felt a tremendous pinch as the bullet entered the right side of his brain. "I got you now."

He fired a second shot.

The voices stopped.