Housewife
: Prologue

Till death do us part.

Humorous, isn’t it?

The memory of the day I walked down the aisle, only to have my liberty wrestled from my grasp, etched unyielding into my mind. Scores of gazes drilling into my very soul as I muttered the fatal words “I do.”

My inner screams echoed and I wished to rip my heart out. From that day on, I was nothing but a ghost of my former self, a mindless prisoner trapped in a cage of my uncle’s making. I had lost my reason to exist, my motivation to love, and even the ability to draw breath without feeling smothered. I fought for my freedom day and night, pouring every ounce of willpower into my quest for escape.

But the more I struggled, the deeper I sank into despair, until I became

unrecognizable even to myself. Yet here I stand, on the very brink of regaining what was rightfully mine. Today, at long last, I will reclaim my life and defy the chains that once bound me.

With each pass of the blade against the steel rod, a metallic melody fills the air, My gaze fixated on the painted portrait of my husband, his eyes soulless and empty – a haunting reminder of the life I am living.

Six fucking years of agony, a victim of his abuse. When I begged for help, they sneered at me with disdain – their laughter pierces like a thousand daggers. A heavy sigh escapes my lips, a single tear rolling down my cheek and landing softly on the kitchen counter.

As the timer chimes, my heart races with excitement. The savoury aroma of the butter and garlic roasted chicken wafts through the air, tantalizing my senses. With precision, I set down my knife and rod and stride towards the oven, clad in my trusty oven mitts. Today is a momentous occasion, a day filled with celebration.

Just as I remove the sizzling chicken from the oven, I hear the sound of the front door shutting. A burst of joy surges within me, knowing that he’s finally

home. My heart pounds faster as heavy footsteps approach the kitchen, and I feel his intense gaze fixated on my back. As I turn around with a beaming smile, I offer him a warm welcome, “You’re just in time for dinner.” With a flick of my wrist, I remove the oven mitts.

His eyes studied me with suspicion, the brown hue growing darker as I fidgeted in his presence. His hair, brittle and lifeless, resembled the texture of old straw left to dry in the sun. His eyes were weathered, the wrinkles around them telling stories of a life filled with hardship. And yet, it was his distinctive beard that drew my attention, it was thin but unmistakable, adding character to his rugged appearance.

As he loosened his tie, a gesture that seemed to signify the end of his patience, and slipped out of his jacket, my heart raced with both fear and anger. With a quick glance in my direction, he strode away from the kitchen, leaving me alone with my thoughts and frustration.

As I tightened my grip on the mitts, the urge to strangle him grew stronger.

The thought of suffocating him with my bare hands seemed like a tempting solution to my problems. But taking a deep breath, I resisted the impulse and steadied myself. My eyes remained fixed on the kitchen entrance, and with a flick of my wrist, I opened the top drawer.

Inside, lay the small bottle of cyanide salt – a deadly solution to my troubles. For ages now, I’ve been gathering seeds from the heart of an apple – each one packed with deadly cyanide. As little as a few thousand crushed seeds of this innocuous fruit can silence a person forever. The science behind it all is rather unsettling – the seeds ruthlessly rob the body of oxygen, crushing the heart and snatching away thoughts from the brain. Being a wife isn’t easy, especially when you’re living in a world where

crime is practically a survival skill. With a cunning smile, I tuck away the tiny packet of doom in my apron’s front pocket as I scurry into the dining room. On the table, I carefully set out the chicken.

A charming melody drifted through the air, filling the room with the serene notes of Nocturne No.2. The lighting was dimmed, casting a warm and welcoming glow over the space. Vanilla candles flickered romantically

in every corner, infusing the air with a sweet, musky perfume. Above the stunning dining table hung a breathtaking crystal chandelier, glinting softly

in the light.

Dishes piled high with delectable creations were artfully arranged on the table – a crisp salad, freshly baked bread, succulent roasted chicken, perfectly steamed vegetables, and a glass of rich red wine. I deftly served up small portions of each dish, carefully crafted from scratch.

Then, with a swift movement, I slipped the cyanide salt from my apron pocket and sprinkled it onto my husband’s plate, meticulously ensuring that no grain went to waste. Just as I was finishing the task, the sound of footsteps caught my attention.

Quickly, I shoved the bottle of salt back into my pocket and made my way to the far end of the table, taking my seat with a practiced grace.

I slipped out of my apron, revealing the sleek black pencil dress that clung to every curve of my body. I smoothed it down, satisfied with the way it emphasized my pear shaped figure, and tucked the apron neatly under the table. With a sense of calm anticipation, I waited for my husband. He sauntered in, clad in a silky robe and a cigar perched on his lips.

The end glowed with a warm flicker as he took a puff, his eyes fixed on me with laser-like intensity. Despite his glare, I refused to be intimidated. With a deft motion, I picked up my knife and fork and delved into my meal. The flavours burst in my mouth, the perfect balance of savoury and sweet. As I savoured every delicious bite, I caught my husband’s gaze again. This time, I lifted a wine glass to my lips and let the crimson liquid wash over my tongue, meeting his gaze with a cool, collected demeanour. With a pleasant grin, I

place the glass on the table and encourage, “Eat, before it gets cold.”

Completing his final puff, he extinguishes the cigar, making sure to save it for later. Cutting his meat with precision, his eyes darted between my face and his plate; his movements were slow and calculated. As he raises the morsel to his mouth, he chews attentively, never losing focus on my scrutiny.

He takes a moment to swallow, relishing the flavours. I spread some butter on my bread and posed the question, “How is it?” Without hesitation, he replies, “Good.” His attention swiftly returns to the tantalizing dish, devouring the rest of the meal. I snag a few vegetables with my fork, savouring the flavours in my mouth, and wash it down with the rich and savoury wine, feeling the liquid warmth flow down my throat.

As the seconds tick by, an eerie stillness fills the air. I raise an eyebrow in curiosity when I notice him clearing his throat with increasing intensity, his breaths growing heavy and laboured. “What fuck is in this?” he demands,

eyes bulging with shock as he stares at me incredulously. Suppressing a smirk, I nonchalantly slice through the succulent chicken on my plate.

“Perhaps I got a little heavy-handed with the paprika.” He snatches up his glass of wine and takes a swig, but it only seems to worsen his condition.

His coughs become violent, his weathered hands clutching at his chest as he struggles to catch his breath. Meanwhile, I sit back in quiet satisfaction, relishing in the intoxicating power of my little experiment. Panic slowly

creeps into his eyes, anxiety clawing its way up from the depths of his soul.

He glances around frantically, disoriented by his surroundings. His skin turns a fiery shade of red, thick veins bulging from his temples down to his neck. With a desperate gasp, he attempts to stand up, only to fall back

into his seat, gasping for air. With a mischievous grin, my lips — painted a blazing red — curl into a sly smirk. “Funny, I forgot to mention I added a little something extra for my dearest husband,” I pause, twirling the crimson liquid in my glass. “Cyanide salt,” the words flow out of me with icy apathy.

He stares at me, eyes filled with terror and fury. I return his gaze with a glint of bitterness in my own eyes.

A shallow gasp escapes his throat, tears streaming down his face as his body convulses uncontrollably. With a calculated calmness, I take another bite of my meal, washing it down with a sip of rich wine as I watch the life drain from my husband’s body, inch by inch.

As he takes his final breath, his head falls onto the plate showcasing the remnants of his meal.

The room is overtaken by a solemn stillness, only interrupted by the serene whispers of the classical music lingering in the atmosphere.

Unfazed, I continue consuming my food, my eyes transfixed on the sight of my husband’s inanimate form. Upon finishing what’s left on my plate, I elegantly pour myself another glass of wine, raising it in a toast to the heavens. With an enigmatic smile plastered across my face, I lose myself in contemplation.

“Happy Anniversary, skurwielu.”