Sunlight fluttering in from the window above the sink blinded me as the dish rag, serving as my blindfold, peeled off.
Squinting my eyes as they adjusted, my kitchen began to fill my immediate surroundings. My wife, Mary, sat blindfolded in one of our dining chairs across the kitchen, a duct tape gag snuggly fit on her mouth. A heavy-set man looked down at me with one finger pressed against his pursed lips in the universal sign for “quiet”.
I furrowed my brow in confusion as he crossed the bright kitchen. A gun’s grip poked out from the back waistband of his dark grey jeans.
Reaching behind Mary’s head, he pulled open the loose knot of her blindfold. Instinctually, Mary’s face shrank away while she blinked, trying to regain focus on the scene before her. The situation began to register, her eyes darted wildly, surveying the kitchen and the heavy-set guest; panic formed on her thin pale face.
The heavy-set man gestured at each of us and spoke, “Now that you two love birds are awake, we can get on with it.”
He leaned down into Mary’s vision, “You see here Mary, your husband,” he pointed back in my direction, “has paid me,” He hooked his thumb toward himself, “to kill you.”, he pushed a fat finger into her chest.
Mary’s darting eyes focused on me, “Yes, your dear husband here…” he looked up, pondering the right words, “well, he wants you disposed of.”
I interjected, “H-hey, w-we had a deal.”
I tried not to look at Mary but couldn’t help it. Her panic-stricken face had turned to that of total dismay – of complete betrayal.
“That’s where you’re wrong friend-oh. You paid me to kill your wife; not how you wanted me to kill her.”
My wife’s muffled voice pushed through her gag, although stifled it was easy to see she was pleading – begging.
He continued, “And you see, well,” He let out a long sigh, “Doesn’t she deserve to know?”
My mouth hung open.
Removing the gun from his waistband, Mary began to scream, thrashing violently in the chair. The gunman placed his free hand on the backrest, steadying it.
“Now – now, Mary, we aren’t quite finished,” He gave a coy shrug, “I mean, you will die, but I will give you a chance to briefly address your husband. Let’s say… ” his voice trailed in thought, “three seconds.”
He gripped the duct tape and ripped the gag off Mary’s face.
“One…”
“Gary, why?! Why did you-“
“Two…”
“do this I loved you! I still love you-“
“Three…”
Bang
My ears rang and anxiety flooded into my chest; adrenaline and cortisol surged through my veins. I sucked in rapid short breaths and began to hyperventilate. My lungs burned with air hunger; I stammered out what I could.
“I… I-“
“I- I- I,” The gunman said in a nasally voice, “I what, Gary? Congratulations, your wife’s fucking dead.”
He crossed the kitchen back to me and lamely tossed the still-smoking gun in my lap.
“If I were you, Gary,” He leaned in close to my ear, “Well, I would kill myself.”
Christian Hardt lives in the Washington state countryside with his wife and dog. He works as an environmental scientist and enjoys writing in his free time.
Published 2/14/25