Kevin’s foot splashes into a puddle as he thrashes through the living room.
“Fuck, even dead you still annoy the shit out of me. That is going to take forever to get out of my rug.”
He stares down at his recently deceased wife and grows angry. Her fat torso is slashed and covered in blood.
“Maybe if you lost some god damn weight you would still be alive. Why couldn't you stay thin like when I met you? I just couldn't look at you anymore; you’re disgusting.”
He walks over toward the mantle and grabs his wedding photo and stares at it, smiling. The photo shows a young man of less than mediocre looks: black hair, medium height, a tad bit stocky, a nose that was a bit to pointy too be cute, and an eye that roamed to the left. Kevin thought of himself as a looker and a prize. He looks over at the pile of lifeless blubber lying on his brand new white Persian carpet. It wasn't really Persian, it was actually from K-Mart, but any time he had company at the small one bedroom bungalow he made sure to point it out and tell them it was Persian. He grew angry again.
“I bet you wouldn't have bled so much if you lost some weight. This is going to take forever to clean.”
He turned his attention to the photo of better times. To the left of him in the black and white picture was a heavy set woman, breasts spilling out of her wedding dress that was two sizes too small, but it was all the couple could afford. It came from a thrift store downtown, it was white, had fake jewels around the neck line, and had the same sleeves as Seinfeld’s puffy shirt. Her one cheek hung slightly lower than the other giving her face the illusion of being lopsided. Her eyes were dark, and anything but attractive, her calves and ankles met simultaneously directly after the knee cap ended. Her stomach stuck out further then it should have, but when a life is growing inside that extra stomach is a beautiful thing.
That was twelve and a half years ago: if Kevin’s memory serves him correctly. He could be wrong, sometimes time just slips by at large chunks and he can’t remember things; maybe it was only six years. Drinking helps ease the annoyance of that.
“I need a drink. God you are disgusting.”
He catches a glimpse of his ex-wife out of his roaming eye, while his other eye is focused on a bottle of high end liquor. It wasn't really high end, it was Montezuma Tequila poured into a Patrón bottle, but he pretended and any time some asked he said it was.
He walks over to the counter the bottle is on, places the bloody knife down, grabbing a glass out of the cabinet and pours himself some of the impostor Patrón. He chugs it down quickly and takes a deep sigh.
“Well, hun, it’s time to go out. And you said I never took you anywhere.”
He walked over to the bloody mass, her dark eyes grew darker, her normally warm rolls now provided no heat, and her abnormally slow, loud heart beat was silent. She no longer struggled to breath. Her legs were slashed and mutilated: after all she never ran in her life and he didn't want her to start now.
She never loved him, she found him ugly, but a night of bad judgment and no better options she slept with him. He was obsessed with her; she laid there while he worked that night, wondering if he even had penetrated, and if he was having a seizure or having sex: it ended in less than two minutes, she was relieved, so was he.
He penetrated. She was pregnant. She didn't believe in abortion, not at her age, when she was younger she had one; the experience was anything but pleasant, so she vowed that if she ever found a bun in her oven again she would keep it there. So she did. He wanted to marry her, her parents urged her to do so. They would be damned if there was a baby born in their family out of wedlock, so with continued pressure they were married. A small ceremony that took place on the hottest day of an already scorching August, she stood sweating in a dress that didn't fit, wondering how much it would cost to fix that lazy eye of his: He really was ugly.
“You used to be beautiful. Now you are fat, ugly and I can’t stand to look at your lopsided face. When did it get so damn awkward? You used to be beautiful.”
Kevin knelt over and tried to move the body; he tried with all his might to pick her up to no avail. He was never the strongest man; in fact he didn't have many of the traits that women look for in a mate. If it wasn't for booze his only experience with females would have been from magazines and pornographic films. He never had anyone before that night. He would try, but his sense of humor was nonexistent, his clothing style was that of a color blind baboon, and then there was that damn eye of his that would wonder around the bar. Before he was married he would put on his long coat and walk down to JMD video and casually walk into the back room and rent several VHS tapes. He really liked ones where the women were more voluptuous.
“Damn, this is more work then I had anticipated. I need a drink. Sit tight.”
Kevin once again crosses his faux Persian rug into his kitchen grabbing the bottle of “Patrón” pouring another large glass, opening his freezer door pulling out the plastic ice cube tray out of the barren freezer, and placing the last two cubes into his drink. He drinks only half of the glass this time, placing it back on his green counter. He notices blood on his jeans.
“I just washed these, you really still annoy me. I just fucking washed these.”
He stands looking down at the blood.
“My rug, my pants; Jesus, why are you such a slob?”
He leaves the kitchen and walks down a short hallway where blood splattered on the wallpaper and laminate flooring, which leads right to the corpse in the puddle on the K-mart rug. That is what really annoyed Kevin. Wallpaper can be taken down, the floors can be mopped, he owns another pair of Old Navy jeans, but that rug: that was his prized possession. He walked into the bedroom at the end of the hall; it was pitch-black. The lamp got destroyed in the struggle; a woman that size was bound to knock something over. He hated that lamp, she bought it; it’s the only thing she didn't take. He walks over to the other side of the room, opening a drawer and pulling out another pair of jeans. He takes off the bloody pair of pants and tosses it onto the floor in the darkest corner of the room: she took the hamper too. A car’s headlights shine into his bedroom; he can see himself in the mirror, standing in his torn tighty-whitey, he thinks he isn't that bad looking, but while staring into the mirror he doesn't see his eye dancing along to its own beat.
He slips into the faded jeans, and takes a seat on the sheetless mattress lying on the floor, she has the oak bed frame crammed in her one bedroom apartment downtown. Reaching down taking off his blood soaked socks, and tossing them into the darkness. He slips on a new pair of unmatched dress socks and glides into his ragged grey New Balance sneakers. He stands and stretches his arms high above his head; one of them touches the low ceiling, the other falls two inches to short. She hated that. His arms, they were so fucking ugly. He puts his hands down and leaves the room following the blood trail to his wife.
“If you weren't so fat this would be done. It’s your fault you know; all of it.”
He looks at the body and really can’t figure out how to get it out the back door and buried in the hole he had dug the earlier in the night. He planned this, but didn't realize it would be this hard. “Mob members can kill and get rid of bodies, why can’t I? It should be easy.” He pondered while sweating over a ditch dug into his far from pristine lawn. She took the lawn mower. She took it to an apartment, just so he couldn't have, that really made him mad. That may have been the tipping point, but he really couldn't remember what brought him to this.
“I need a drink.”
He once again takes the trip to the kitchen and finishes the beverage he left on the counter. He pours another; another; one more for good measure.
“Fuck it.”
Kevin finishes the bottle. He walks back into the living room; the blood stopped flowing out of her body, but it is starting to congeal. He sits on his green couch, and leans back as far as he can stretching his legs out, he turns on the lamp on the end table picking up another photo. It’s him and a young boy, their son Jason, a much better looking version of the couple. He lucked out, he wasn't as ugly as his father and wasn't as bulky as his mother. He was attractive, it didn't help him though, he still didn't have many friends, and there split wasn't easy on him. He starts to think about where Jason is, “is he here? Did she take him?”
“That’s right he is over at St. Michael’s, I think. That’s your fault too you fat fucking whore.”
He stands and slams the photo down onto his ex-wife; it bounces off shattering on the blood soaked floor. His son’s innocent face stares up at him; Kevin bends over and picks up the photo, and puts it into his jeans pocket. Kevin has never been right since she left. He has never been the same since his son left. His drunken mind allows him to shed a few tears. He grabs his car keys, and walks out the house, leaving Mary behind to decompose on his “Persian” rug. He opens the door of his Oldsmobile and slides into the tattered leather interior, puts the key in the ignition and starts the car.
He drives in silence for twenty minutes, or was it longer, he couldn't tell. He pulls up to a dimly lit sign for St. Michael’s. He parks the car and walks through the gate, over to where Jason is. It is a simple tombstone, just his name and the years he lived: 1999-2013. It was a small ceremony, Jason didn't have many friends. Kevin blames the woman lying on his floor for this, it was her gun. He blames her for everything. Why did she have to take the lawn mower?
