I hear the door creek open and the jingling of his keys. His heavy footsteps echoed in my ears as he walked against the cold tile of our kitchen floor. With every step he took, I cringed at the thought of him coming near me. Breathing on me. Touching my skin. Making it crawl with disgust.
Was it normal to hate your husband? To want to scream out in pain when he kisses you? Is it normal to want to die whenever he whispers 'I love you'?
Of course not. But that's the way I felt. The way I feel every moment of everyday. He was a bastard and didn't deserve my love, or anybody's love for that matter. To the world, he was Justin Timberlake. Sweetheart. Mama's boy. Mister Big Shot. But to me, he was a coward that was sick enough to hit on someone he claimed to honor and care for.
I know he's wrong for beating me, but I can't help but blame myself. I never left him. Not that I didn't try. But every time I did, he'd find me, use sweet words of endearment to make me puddy in his hands, and then break every promise he swore to keep.
I'll stop, Diana. I promise, I'll get help. The same line. The same empty words. The same stupid me believing them. It just doesn't make sense though. No matter how many times I tell myself he's full of shit, I can't help but think it might be different the next time around.
"Hey." I close my eyes as his warm breath tickles the back of my neck as I continue to stir the sauce on the stove. My actions hault the moment his hands ran up and down my bare arms.
"Hey," I repeat, my sugary-sweet tone covering up the anger I'm truly feeling, "How was your day?" He grunts and pulls away from me. I let out a sigh of relief.
"I didn't finish that song I've been working on," he says, "Pharell and I got into an argument about one of the background vocals." I nod as though I truly care.
My mind is more focused on other things. Like the tiny bottle of clear liquid I have in my hands. The end to all my misery.
"Maybe you'll get it finish later on this week," I tell him enthusiastically, "Making good music takes time."
"I know what music takes," he growls, "I didn't ask your opinion on the situation."
"I was just trying to help," I whimper.
"I didn't ask for your help, Diana." I feel him behind me, his lips grazing my ear, "You'd know that if you would just listen." I wanted to turn around and face him, my head held high in a defining manner and tell him to cram it, but I knew better than that. He'd bash my face in like he had down so many times before.
"I'm sorry," I apologize, gripping the bottle tighter, "I'll listen better next time." I don't even have to look at him to know that he's wearing that smug grin across his face.
"Good," he stated in an eeriely cheerful tone, "I'm going to shower. Make me a plate." I nod at his demand, but never turn to face him.
I hurriedly grabbed two plates, arranging pasta and tomato sauce on each of them. I make my way out to the dining room, placing one plate at each end of the table along with the dinner forks and wine glasses. As I make my way back into the kitchen, I glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes have already passed, and I knew Justin would be down any minute. I grab a bottle of red wine from the cooler and go back to the table.
I pour the wine in my cup before heading down to Justin's glass. I watched as the wine splashed inside the transparent container, the sloshing sound bellowed in my ears. I set the wine aside and reached into my apron pocket. I pull out the tiny bottle, which I tucked away for safe keeping, and stared at it.
This was it. Now or never. I spent almost four years thinking about doing this, but never found an appropriate way to go about things. I just was sure of one thing: I wanted him to suffer. I wanted him to feel the pain that resounded in my chest for years. I wanted him to beg for my help as he choked on his last breath. I wanted him dead.
But now I have a conscience to deal with.
Killing was wrong. I knew that. Who doesn't? But what if it's justified? What if this is temporary insanity on my part? What if it was self-defense? I mean, I was trying to protect myself from his violate outburst. He did drive me insane with all his lies and broken promises. He deserves this and I deserve to be freed from this hell I call home.
Before I knew it, the poison was flowing from the bottle to his glass. Every last drop was now mingling with his wine and would soon mingle with his heart, his lungs, his every muscle. . . Until it stops.
I slip the now empty bottle back into my pocket and go inside the kitchen to rinse my hands. As a pang of guilt surged through me, I could practically feel the warmth of his blood on my hands.
"This looks good, Diana!" Justin comments loudly as he walks into the dining area, taking a seat in front of the table. I dry my hands with a towel and wipe a tear that has escaped my eyes. I remove my apron and make way out to the table. Justin looks up at me and smiles softly, causing his baby face innocence to shine right through.
He was beautiful. Bright blue eyes, perfectly aligned teeth. . . Our kids would've been gorgeous. But he's an ugly person with a black heart. A liar. A cheater. An abuser. I wouldn't allow myself to bring children into this hell hole. Why should the innocent suffer?
"Hopefully it'll taste as good as it looks," I joke. Justin looks down at the angel hair pasta before looking back up with me.
"It better." I can't tell if he's joking or not. But what does it matter? He won't be here long enough to do something about it.
My eyes fall to his hands the moment they move toward his glass. His long, manicured fingers wrap around the cup and lifts it off the table.
"I'd like to make a toast," Justin announces, "To us." I hold back the urge to vomit and lift my glass as well.
"To us." I say softly, staring into his eyes. I bring my wine to my lips, all the while staring at Justin as he does the same. He takes a long swing and places the glass on the table. For a moment, I think it's not working and I silently scream, but then I see his face contort in confusion. His hands began to caress his throat before he takes a panicky breath, standing abruptly, knocking his chair over in his fit.
I stiffen as his gasps for air become louder. He leans over the table, gripping the side with one hand.
"Diana!" he breathes, " I can't. . . help. . .I. . ." He deperately reaches his hand out to me as he stumbles in my direction. I jump up from my seat when he tumbles forward, falling flat on the ground. He takes in another deep breath, his eyes are glazed over with tears as his hand clutches to his chest.
His face takes on a feverish red and sweat begins to form on his brow. He lets out a whimper and stares up at me, his eyes piercing into mine.
"Please. . ." he begs, "Help me." Ha! Now he wants my help?
"No," I state drily, scurrying over to the opposite side of the table.
"Di. . . I need you." For a moment, he almost sounds sincere.
"Go to hell," I cry, "You're not going to hurt me anymore." My eyes are flooding with my tears and I can't distigush the joyful ones from those of guilt.
"Don't let me die." His hands reach up to the table for support, but he can't hold on.
"Why not?" I asked, "You killed me a long time ago." The veins in his body bulge and I turn away, feeling my stomach churn in disgust. I can see the phone on its base from where I stand and I get the sudden urge to call for help. But I can't now. If he lives, he'll tell them I did this. I'll go to jail.
"I'm. . . sorry. . .Diana. . ." Justin gasps. I turn back to his quivering form and stare at him.
"If you were really sorry, it wouldn't have come to this." His eyes roll back as his body jerks.
"I love you." I'm shocked by his words, but remember how manipulating he can be.
"I love you too," I tell him honestly, "But I hate you all the same." His shallow breathing slows with every passing second before it finally withers down to nothing. His eyelids slide shut and his heaving chest flattens. My heart pounds as the realization of what just happened enters my mind.
I can't believe it. I actually did it. All my anger and pain came down to this very moment. I snapped. I lost it. . .
I waited for the initial shock to dissolve and was disappointed to find that the feeling of liberation that I hoped to feel never came. In fact, I felt more burdensome. My heart was heavy with guilt and my mind turned to mush as I tried to think of ways to cover this up. But what was I going to do? People would find out eventually. I'll get caught in the end. It's not like he was a nobody. He belonged to the world and they'd stop at nothing to punish the one who did this.
I would've never guessed that I would fall because of his mistakes, but I was going to. There was no point in trying to run. Everything would eventually catch up with me and I'd be left with no place to go.
I took a deep breath, the cool air hitting the back of my throat as I choked on my tears. My feet dragged themselves toward the kitchen counter. My hand reached out and gripped the white phone from its base. My fingers softly pressed the three digits that were going to mark the end of me.
The phone picked up on the first ring and I sobbed as the operator spoke, "911 emergency, how may I help you?"
"Oh God. . ." I cry as the tears practically drown me in my misery.
"Ma'am, you have to tell me what's going on. . ." I continue to sob as I turn and see his lifeless form spread across the floor. I lick my lips and try to calm myself. I sniffle before I finally speak. . .
"I just killed my husband."
