are you happy now?

He woke on the bedroom floor, his arms crossed over his chest, trembling.

His first thought—after establishing where in the hell he was—was how he’d arrived there.

There on the carpet, on his back.

Had he rolled off the bed, hit the floor, and bumped his head?

He couldn’t remember.

The room was dark and smelled of things both strange and unfamiliar. A ceiling fan spun above him, and for a moment he stared upward and watched the blades cut through the air. When he tried to sit up, he felt a sharp wrenching pain in his abdomen. He cried out and laid his head back down on the carpet.

After a moment he tried again to pull himself up and again failed, but instead managed to roll on to his side. He groaned and struggled for a quick breath. The air was cold and hard to breathe.

And then he saw the blood.

Lots of it.

Someone had stabbed him in the stomach and left the knife buried inside the wound. The blood soaked his white undershirt and trickled down in small streams to the carpet.

He was sure now he had passed out, likely due to extensive blood loss, though by the grace of God, he wasn’t dead. Dying, but not yet dead, what a hospital was apt to label critical condition.

Naturally he wondered who stabbed him, but whoever they were they obviously weren’t here now. They’d fled, believing they’d killed him, and so he’d piece that puzzle together later. If he was going to survive, he needed to find help, and soon.

Where was his wife?

He slowly reached for the knife and wrapped his fingers around the handle. He jerked at the blade a little and then screamed a lot. He wanted to pull it out, and thought he could, but the pain was excruciating.

Still on his side facing the foot of the bed, he took his hand off the knife and grabbed at the bed sheets. Using the sheets as a grip, he slowly dragged his body closer to the bed until his back was up against the mattress. This motion proved to be absolute agony to his wound but necessary nevertheless. On the floor, he was helpless. In order to reach a phone, or find his wife, he needed to stand up.

He let go of the sheets, which he had painted with bloody handprints, and now placed his hands on top of the mattress. He took another quick breath and then began to lift himself on to the bed. The pain hit him harder than ever as the knife gently twisted inside him, and for a moment he thought he would lose consciousness.

Exhausted, he sat there for nearly a minute with his head down, a mixture of spit and blood drooling from his mouth.

Lying next to him on the bed was his wife’s pink robe. She wouldn’t be happy with what he was about to do next, but when was she ever happy anyway? He was her burden, his illness making him unable to work and provide for her, and she’d never let him forget it—yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

Never.

He loved her still, even if she would rather him be buried in the backyard.

He grabbed the robe with his left hand and bundled it up as best he could. His right hand went around the knife.

A tug and the blade came out with little resistance. An upsurge of blood followed.

He winced as he pushed the pink robe on to the exposed hole to slow the bleeding. The robe was instantly ruined. Somewhere the old hag was having a heart attack.

From the bed he rose to his feet and stumbled toward the bedroom door on the other side of the room. He passed his dresser, still applying pressure to the wound, the excess robe dragging on the floor behind him, and stopped at the entrance to the master bath.

The door was open. He heard the sound of splashing water. The mirror above the sink showed only a bleary version of his face.

He stepped closer.

A hot steam met him in the doorway.

As he stepped inside he looked over at the shower. The peach colored curtain was closed and the water was running. He called out to his wife but received no response.

He set the bloody knife down on the counter and wiped away much of the steam from the mirror.

He looked like a sack of rotten potatoes. His sunken cheeks. His old, gray skin. His chaotic hair.

Again he cried for his wife, and still she just showered and said nothing. He wasn’t surprised.

She treated him like he didn’t exist.

He bowed his head.

An empty bottle of pills was in the sink. His medication. The doctor said it would relax the nerve endings in his brain, help him to better focus his thoughts in a productive manner. His wife always said it kept the little lunatic inside on lockdown.

They were both right.

But then she had cursed at him and poured the pills down the sink, he now remembered.

Why would she do that?

He limped toward the shower and snatched open the curtain. There she was, the old hag lying naked on her back in two inches of brown water, multiple stab wounds in her chest and stomach, while the showerhead above rained hot water down, washing away the fresh blood as it bubbled up.

She brought it all down on herself. She let the little lunatic out to play.

Are you happy now?

He threw the pink robe over his dead wife and backed away from the shower. He picked the knife back up from the counter.

The killer smiled at him.

A haunted smile, reflected in the mirror.

A smile all his own.

Then he drove the knife deep into his chest again and again and again until fatigue beat him—until he collapsed to the bathroom floor, the black plastic handle of the blade protruding from his bludgeoned belly like a gravestone.

He lay there, tranquil, hoping the next breath would be his last.

And knowing this time he wouldn’t wake up.