Frank resides in New York with his wife, Anna. He has also been published in The Cynic, Tales from the Moonlit Path, Nocturnal Ooze, Silver Moon and Forever Underground magazines.

March 8, 2005

I killed my wife yesterday. Emptied a full load of 22's point blank into her chest. The drinking glass she was holding looked like it was suspended in air before it fell to the ground shattering into pieces.

This morning, my wife and I went to the mall to window shop.

I haven't been seeing patients lately. I'm not a hypocrite. It's unethical to promote mental health if one is unsure of one's own state of mind.

This is not a diary, but a testimony. It is clear to me the actions needed to remedy the current situation. Premeditation? Yes, indeed, I have meditated upon this situation for some time. Even as I put pen to paper, I hear Sara banging around in the cellar, a reminder of the seriousness of this matter.

I, Thomas Caufield, take the institution of marriage very seriously. Relationships take effort and commitment, both of which have been tested throughout the developments of the last few weeks.

Since all accounts have a beginning, I believe that this one (please bear in mind I have not slept for some time) began July eighteenth. I had taken that day off, planning to spend time with my four year old, Michael, and five year old Anna, so that my wife could be free to do her shopping for my birthday present. My attempts at downplaying this celebration of my thirty eighth year had been fruitless. My wife has always been determined and selfless.

Although I cannot be sure of the exact time, I believe she left the house in our overpriced mini van somewhere around nine in the morning. The weather was fair, so the children and I spent all of the morning and some of the afternoon at the park navigating the perils of a jungle gym.

By two, I had not heard from Sara, and left a casual message on her cell. By five, back at home, I had added another ten calls to her. Each time, I'd been greeted by her smiling voice promising that the call would be returned. I was concerned. My wife is a thorough and responsible person who normally calls me on the hour, many times for no particular reason. Plus, she hates to shop.

I don't remember eating dinner that evening. While sitting in front of the television contemplating the involvement of the authorities, I heard the front door open. The dampness of her clothes and hair was not what initially struck me but rather the blank look on her face. She'd been bombarded with questions as I wiped her with a towel but her glazy stare remained.

Those eyes didn't look at me but past me. After stripping off her clothes and conducting a frantic body search, I was able to calm down a bit. There was no sign of obvious trauma although her skin was unusually cold to the touch. I guided her to a warm bath where she remained upright staring straight ahead at the ceramic wall. My volley of questions was met with silence. Only after I had mentioned calling a doctor did she break out of her trance, uttering the word, "no".

Was she all right?

Yes.

What happened?

I don't know.

And then she was off again, into a world outside this one. She'd stepped out of the tub, without a word, dripping water onto the floor as she entered the bedroom. I recall fluttering around her like a mother bird, trying to dry her as she went. She uttered "tired" before falling onto the bed and into what seemed like a deep slumber. I didn't sleep a wink that night.

The next morning, she woke at the usual time and prepared breakfast. Or tried to. When I asked about the night before, she turned to me with a look of puzzlement as eggs fell off the spatula onto the floor. The children and I were forced to discard the undercooked meal. It was the first bad meal she'd ever made.

I took the rest of the week off. The good Dr Wallstein was kind enough to cover my appointments. As my wife began sleeping increasingly late, I took over the chore of breakfast. She refused to eat a bite.

By the end of the first week, the blank stares were accompanied by constant drooling. This truly disturbed the children. To break the "stare" as I called it, I'd snap my fingers close to her face but the effect never lasted long. The blank look would return with a string of saliva growing from her bottom lip. Walking around the house, I kept a wad of tissues on me, wiping pools of drool off the tables, counter tops and floors.

By the second week, my wife looked gaunt. Even when I spoon-fed her, she ate little, the food falling out of her slack mouth. I again mentioned a physician, which triggered a tirade. Grunts and wails with her arms waving wildly reminded me of some of the National Geographic shows I had seen. Assurances that I would not call a doctor finally stopped the repeated banging of her head against the counter. Instead, I started her on Zoloft and waited.

Loss of muscular coordination was evident by week three. My wife, who had been a star athlete in track and field as well as swimming in college, began walking into walls. A pattern of bruises decorated her forehead but she did not seem to feel them. Her movement was robotic, as if she was unable to bend her limbs. If not for the reality of it, I would have been amused by the Boris Karloff-type scene. Worried about the possibility of injury, I began tying my wrist to hers so that I could guide her throughout the house. I became her attendant, bathing, dressing and feeding her. I am committed to this relationship and was not bitter about this arrangement.

Her body odor became unbearable. It was not the scent of perspiration or any body fluid, but a rancid smell like rotting meat. Her skin was blue and cold to the touch and her pulse almost nonexistent. Her eyes were a roadmap of crimson vessels and her teeth, the few that remained, were as black as coals. Despite my constant grooming, I could not improve this condition.

One night I awoke to find the string on my wrist severed and the bed next to me empty. I raced down to the kitchen to find her seated at the table staring at the wall with an oven mitt stuffed into her mouth. When I later attempted to take her temperature, she bit down hard enough on the thermometer to shatter it. I tried to physically remove her from the house to bring her to a clinic, but she became crazed, a wild animal in suburbia. More than once, she tried to bite me. On the second attempt, I saw her front incisor shatter when it narrowly missed the flesh of my wrist.

I harbored no resentment. She is my wife.

It was after finishing a load of laundry in the basement that I removed my children from the house. I did not discuss the situation with my sister when she arrived to pick them up. I do not enjoy withholding information from family, but this was a situation of utmost sensitivity. While sorting through a pile of clothes from the dryer, I had discovered two fingers stuck to a softener sheet, the broken black nails embedded in the withered flesh. When I approached Sara, seated at her usual spot at the bedroom window staring, I confirmed what I had already known. Two digits were missing from her right hand and a third appeared ready to fall off at the least bit of agitation. So, the children were removed. What else could I do? At such an early age, they were prone to put things in their mouths and I did not want them to choke.

Yesterday, my wife's skin began falling off in large pieces. Her verbal communication was little more than an occasional grunt. I picked her up (she was alarmingly light) and brought her down to the cellar. She resembled a store mannequin, arms and legs stiffly extended as I carried her over my shoulder. After confirming that the door at the top of the stairs and the other leading to the yard were both locked, I entered the meter room and then regurgitated the contents of my stomach onto my loafers.

On the concrete floor of the five by seven room was a pile of bones, fur, and gore. As I stepped forward, a whirlwind of flies rose above the mess in a manic fury. Then something caught my eye. A red strip of leather with a small brass bell sat atop the mound of carcasses. I knew what it was before reading the name "Skippy" stitched in blue thread into the collar. The Kelly's cat had been missing for several days.

My wife, the woman I had met in senior year at Oakdale High, made love to by candlelight, taken long walks on the beach and created the life of two beautiful children with, crawled across the floor, mouth open in anticipation. Her eyes, once blank, now expressed a feeling.

Hunger.

It is then I knew what needed to be done. A theory needed to be tested. I had purchased a twenty-two automatic a few years back when a neighbor a block over was the victim of a home invasion, but I had never actually fired the weapon. It always sat in the bedroom safe, as clean as the day I had bought it. I imagine it had been the assurance of knowing I had the gun that was most important.

After firing multiple rounds into her, I watched as she remained prone on the floor of the cellar for one hour before I went upstairs. I tried to keep an objective medical perspective, reminding myself that I had not killed my beloved partner. After all, she had stopped breathing the day before.

The next morning, after a brief slumber, I awoke to the sound of scratching at the oak door in the kitchen that led to the cellar. The theory was proven, yet I felt emptier than ever. There she stood at the top of the stairs, sporting several dark holes in her chest. Surprisingly, she seemed calm, and I rewarded her with a trip to the mall in an ensemble of a hat, sunglasses, gloves and flannel jumpsuit. I had thought the fresh air might do her well. Unfortunately, our trip was brief. We were forced to leave when she attempted to "interact" with the puppies at the Kennel Club. Security was informed of her fictitious epileptic condition and we were granted a free pass.

That leads to the present time and this written testimony that may be necessary in case of future legalities. I stand here with a pen in one hand and an axe in the other. I have never been a fan of 'B' horror movies, but based on the limited exposure and knowledge I do have, I will attempt to separate my wife's head from her shoulders and crush her brain. I do so with regret but know it will bring my beloved peace and insure the safety of others. Unfortunately, I cannot objectively comment on my state of mind. I understand the seriousness of this action and the probability that I may not walk away unscathed.

That's the price of marriage, to which I am committed.

Thomas Caufield