She died on the first Friday in October and this occurrence, by no means, negates the fact that she was an abhorrent beast; a beast that would gnaw on my ankle until she hit bone and then cackle between her fangs wildly when she did so. This cackle was an inflated cackle only emitted to drown out my whimpers. I had no other choice, but to drag her with me through life and grit as she caused as much friction as her weight would allow. She nearly turned me into a demoralized breasted man with her growls and bites! Yes, yes, this abhorrent beast, this hairy backed mongrel, this jagged toothed snarl, this unfortunate mutt, was undoubtedly my wife.
Her beasty tendencies weren’t explicit at first. I curse myself for being unable to detect them with my obtuse eye. If I were a beast like her I would have recognized them quickly before she spiked her claws into me; before I began subtly enjoying the pain that she inflicted. The traits had always been conspicuous and I was just too damn innocent to want to see them, too damn soft, and too damn human. I can remember the day to the exact second when I solidly concluded that she was a beast. I’m sorry I cannot possibly divulge that happening right now. Perhaps later in the story I will tell, but I must warm up a bit before I speak so easily about such atrocities. If I share now a paroxysm of emotion will hit my nerves and send me into a serious shake- a tremor I may not rebound from. I will only mention that I spent that enlightening day in my car with my forehead resting on the steering wheel, holding a sprained wrist and weeping about the life that she raped from me; and with her rapes my dreams vanished too.
We met in the outside world through mutual acquaintances. I was a misanthrope who resented the transformation of our once personable society into something small and mundane. I did well for myself by easing through life with a prophylactic mindset towards women; love and then insult was my motto. But when I met the beast I immediately found myself unable to dodge her beauty. Numerous times I tried to insult, but her looks barricaded the words from exiting my mouth. Saturdays next to her on the couch I sat staring at her inconspicuously, planning her expulsion from my life. However her beauty clung to me and even pursued me in our time apart. I daydreamed about it in the morning, at work, in bed, while eating, and always while exercising. I thought nothing of how our personalities meshed; I thought nothing of the future or if there was an unbreakable bond between us that would lead us to an island of longevity. I showed her off proudly to family and friends and they told me exactly what I yearned for each time I presented her. “She is beautiful, she is darling,” they would all say. I’d smile and turn crimson while admiring her too. I found myself addicted to the joy that her beauty brought others and I felt like I somehow acted as a catalyst to that loveliness. Sadly, it was enough to make me feel better about myself and I never imagined that I’d deign to such a level. Once I realized I would never surmount this shallowness, this character flaw of mine, I proposed to her. We were married seven years ago.
The ground had frosted over the day of her death and I was already in a grubby sort of mood. A mood where I’d pursue the slightest irritant belligerently until it subsided. A man with a limp set me off down York St. near the flower stand and I followed him all the way up to Clark St. before he asked me what I was up to. I grabbed his shirttail and pleaded with him to procure walking sticks to remedy his limp. He looked at me bewilderedly and tried to flee. He went nowhere, with being held and all, and he gradually relinquished his evasive wants. I pointed to his leg and I cordially repeated my problem with it. Only then did he realize what I spoke of and his surprised look turned into one of absolute shame. He then sat on a bench and sobbed. I had nothing more to say so I left him alone and continued on to work. Besides for my grumpiness and the frost, I vaguely remember anything pertaining to that time…
I left the house hungry and trudged to my job in the morning as I’ve done so for the last seven years. My profession calls for me to obey the sounds of these screaming bells that resonate throughout my place of employment and I did so perfectly the day she died. Sometimes I forget them and I continue lecturing about god knows what and my students’ vacant stares are the only things that correct me. The material spewed is all the same to me and I hate how it’s drastically different for each individual class. Anyhow, I left school that day, crawled into bed with my shoes still on and laid there with too much time on my hands to be anything but oversexed. I felt ashamed for going to bed at four so I began grading my students’ reports. Because of my sexual frustrations I granted no grade above a C. Every little mistake I tore apart proudly and condescendingly like I owned them. Like my pupils should be grateful to have my red ink mock their pathetic attempts at laudable prose. I was the king of literature for the day! Yes, I will admit, I was in no mental condition to score papers fairly, but I immaturely let my emotions grade them all anyways. It kept me up thank goodness. I knew if the abhorrent beast came home and found me sleeping she’d harass me tirelessly, for that is the beast’s chief instinct; to nag ceaselessly.
The phone rang and if my first shoe had done the trick and knocked the phone off the receiver I wouldn’t have answered. I didn’t launch the other one because I disgracefully threw out my arm launching the goddamn first one and my velocity is downright despicable with my left. I answered the phone and some poor little officer cleared his throat timidly before introducing himself. Then he said, “Mr. Higgins, there has been a terrible accident. It’s regarding your wife.”
He finished with the scripted condolences and all I could say was, “Oh?” It was the dullest oh that I ever let slip and entirely suitable because I felt nothing; no cringe, smile, or tear. There was an awkward silence meaning he expected me to continue, but I left it at that. I listened to him breath and I was half afraid he was going to buck up and give me some sort of cliché retort like, “Is that all you have to say for yourself?! Oh!? Oh!? Really Mr. Higgins?! Are you that indifferent about the death of your wife?!”
Thank god he said nothing of the sort because I would’ve gone blank. I think I did so anyways. When I comprehended what the officer said I didn’t picture my wife’s face nor did I see her name or reminisce about her scent. My mind was stuck on the frost that covered the ground this morning. It had been terrorizing me all day and I’m thankful that I didn’t meltdown because of it. Even when I couldn’t see it, I knew and felt that it was there. It haunted me and pulled backward on the reigns that controlled my happiness! I smashed every grape in the refrigerator of the teacher’s lounge just to preserve my sanity. I stuck the mush in the egg cartridges, closed the lid, and washed my hands. It was the first Friday in October and the grass should be green and unbothered by such a thing as frost.
Now reader, I must stress that as ruthless as I may sound, I am not a coldhearted fellow. In fact, as I ponder the actions that I’ve taken in this world I conclude that I am quite benevolent. I sacrificed my personal time and followed that limping man for a quarter of a mile for his own good. He cannot hobble through life pathetically like a defeatist! Like the throat of a mouse snapped in a trap. Bringing his problem to his consciousness was the noble thing to do. If I were a scoundrel I would have called him a gimp and spat on him like he was nothing. I did no such thing. I implored him to attain walking sticks and him, the cad that he is, wept like people do when a humbling solution presents itself. I’m sure he sat there focusing on nothing other than his soiled pride. He should have been thinking about a solution! Yes, let it be known that Orson Higgins could have acted a scoundrel many times in his life, and dodging punishments would have been unproblematic for him, but he has ignored the easy scoundrels’ paths and veered in honorable directions. Directions fit for Saints! I did so, not because of the fear of being caught, but because I knew it would somehow make me feel selfishly blissful. I hold this feeling of bliss to the highest degree. Perhaps, it’s because I used to live with an abhorrent beast and this euphoric sensation is the only thing that I’ve had to live for, for so long. I must add that this bliss didn’t grace my heart often, the beast made sure of that, and when it did I clung to it ceaselessly like a worm stretching to hold onto its hole in the earth. I’ll never fail to adhere to the basic intrinsic motivators that this life presents to me. Some, most even, are too busy following extrinsic motivators; motivators that fill this world with a lust for power that ultimately infests everything with destitution and hate. If they had only lived with an abhorrent beast like I have for so long, then maybe they would understand. Maybe they would grasp how lucky they are and live simply, for that is what the beast has taught me. I was chained to her by marriage for seven years and in that time I learned to concentrate fully on the happiness of my inner self. If I didn’t she would tighten my leash and pull on it, stifling the air coming out of my gullet. As an oppressed man I had no choice, for choice is the first thing oppression murders.
With the news of her death, I now must begin leading a new life; a life full of wonder, uncertainty, and pleasure. Yes these enjoyable things make up the life of a bachelor! A born again bachelor, mind you, for that is what I will tell people who pity me. “Sirs, a devastated widower I am not, but a born again, vivacious bachelor I have become! Pity me not, for life has graced my tongue once again.”
You have every right to be laughing at me. Yes! It is true! All of this wisdom is coming from a mere school teacher! A school teacher who undoubtedly needed to be whipped with much more extrinsic motivation that would’ve tore his lazy back to shreds and encouraged him to accomplish more. Instead, I’ve underachieved greatly like so and I’ll now be hiding out in an academic institution for the remainder of my adult days slowly transforming into a philosophical burnout. I apologize for persuasively clouding your head with such a superfluous ramble.
Anyhow, much later in our conversation about my wife’s death (even after a grumble or two about the unfortunate frost) the Officer asked me to come down to the county morgue and view the body. I asked what for and he told me it was for identification purposes. I felt inconvenienced so I said, “Run her fingerprints please.” This confused the officer and he said, “Excuse me?” He said it real proper-like too. I continued, “Well can’t you just run her fingerprints? You know, to I.D her I mean? Stamp her real good and let me know of the results.” He didn’t know what to say and he started stuttering real bad and I almost chuckled to myself, but then I pitied him. I told him I’d be down once I finished regrading my reports. He asked if I’d be alright driving as if I was emotionally unwell. I could very well be psychotic mind you, and I’m not in any position to defend myself with the things that I’ve already spouted, but I told him an escort wasn’t necessary. I hung up the phone thinking of nothing in particular. I do remember questioning if I could make it to the morgue on what was in the gas tank. I don’t know why I did this, but before I left I took all of Debbie’s shoes and threw them in a trash bag. Oh and Debbie is the abhorrent beast’s name. Don’t let the commonness of it fool you into thinking she’s normal and good! To this day I still look down at my ankle and see her gnawing on it while jerking her head viciously from side to side. I cannot sleep at night without hearing her treacherous howls seep through the walls to pick fights with my peace. I then stuffed the trash bag full of heels in the garbage bin and wheeled it to the end of the driveway.
The mortuary was exactly what you’d picture one to be so I won’t get into it. I stood over this white cloth looking down at what appeared to be the profile of a person’s nose. The pointiness of it gave the sheet some definition. I glanced away from the veiled nose, towards the end of the steel table and at the awkwardly exposed feet that hung over the table’s edge. I bent down and studied them (I did not sniff) and I knew right away they were Debbie’s. They were goddamn pedicured perfectly; her bottoms were smooth and as soft as dough and her nails formed the most sublime half-circles. There wasn’t a flawing vein in them and they looked nice and olive colored. She was terribly conscientious about all aspects of her appearance. I told the mortician that he didn’t need to remove the cloth. I pointed to the feet and nodded my head while whispering solemnly, “That’s her. That’s my Debbie.”
The insolent bastard pulled the cloth off my dead wife’s head anyways and she looked more beautiful than ever. So damn beautiful that I wanted to cry right on her bosom, just kneel down and cry right there like some sort of hysterical wreck. I wouldn’t have cared if her tits were cold either. Both of my knees simultaneously went floppy and I had to grab ahold of the cold table to stabilize myself. I sunk my head low as I endured the stinging of love trying to invade my heart! Trying to fuel its once peaceful pumps with passion! I clutched the pectoral muscle over it as if guarding my heart’s tranquility of perfectness from this scoundrel, this fool, this enigma, this immeasurableness that is love! I felt my eyes gloss over and my hunched over shoulders cocked back and I began-a-shudderin. I had never felt like crying over this woman before and I later attributed it to the power of beauty. Her hair was wet for some reason and it was slicked back and her cheekbones looked as frail as hanging icicles. Her skin looked so white and peaceful. Her beady bear eyes were closed and I was able to stare at her without worrying about averting quickly. Was it her stillness that made her look so beautiful and love worthy? Was it the knowing that this abhorrent beast would never howl again that made her so irresistibly attractive? Was it the truth that I would never be in the creature again that made her desirable!?
What comes first I screamed in my head!? Does beauty lead to love or does love lead to beauty? I looked over at the man holding the sheet and he looked apathetically at my tear filled eyes. Whiney mopes like me must vex someone like him, who sees cadavers being wheeled in there like bars of soap on a conveyor belt. I wanted to attack him and beat some sympathy into his gawk. My eyes flared with a daring billow of hatred and the man noticed it and turned away. I rolled up the sleeves to my cardigan to radiate austerity.
I placed my hand on her creepy knee and squeezed it hard as if she’d feel it and wake up. She didn’t. She was dead. Then the urge to spread her legs on that nippy table and ravage her like a merry, tail fluttering squirrel surged through my loins. Ravage her good and dead one last time. This time I would act like the abhorrent beast and gnaw on her limbs while interlocked. I’d whisper deprecations into her lobe that would blacken her blood. I’d torture her for using her aesthetic flawlessness to reawaken this love preserved only by the devil! I smiled at her beautifulness unafraid.
I refrained from acting out on my urges only because I knew she would feel no pain and that her blood was most surely sullied already. I feel god awful for admitting that. I really do. It makes me downright ugly for admitting such sick reasoning. Afterwards I held up quite well though and I forgot about how beautiful she looked as a corpse altogether. With her beautiful carcass out of my mind I forgot about loving her too.
