[Critique Group 1] Marcia's August submission

[Marcia Wick]

Drop Dead

Marcia J. Wick, The Write Sisters

August 2020

Word Count:  446

 

Note to readers:  Tongue-in-cheek, sort of. Some may find dark humor
uncomfortable.

 

 

I will be haunted for sure when he dies. I've wished him dead countless
times in so many different ways. Today, perhaps he'll collapse on his bike
ride. There is smoke in the air from nearby wildfires, it's getting into the
hottest part of the afternoon, and he's been coughing. Perhaps the exertion,
the heat, the smoke, and his high blood pressure will combine to do the
trick. I'll receive a phone call later in the evening explaining that my
husband was found dead on the side of the trail. Police may speculate the
cyclist suffered a massive heart attack.

 

Yesterday, I wished him dead when he went out shopping. I heard a news
report about a fatal car accident at an intersection near our home. He could
have been at that location at the precise time that an S.U.V. slammed into a
light pole. The news anchor wondered if the elderly driver killed at the
scene had passed out behind the wheel.

 

The day before that, I imagined he had drowned. An avid swimmer, he fancies
himself competitive at age 74. He boasts about winning the gold medal in his
age bracket while failing to mention he is the only competitor in the
bracket. Perhaps, while trying to impress fellow swimmers by sprinting to
improve his butterfly time, his heart will stop. One minute, he could be
pumping his legs and ducking his head under water. The next minute, others
might notice the butterfly floating face down.

 

When the roads were icy last week, I wondered (not worried) if the man I
married would meet his end by flying off a frozen bridge. Or, maybe the
drive by shooter on the nightly news nailed him? That would explain why he
was late for dinner.

 

Speaking of dinner, he could choke while shoveling food in his face, sitting
one foot away from the kitchen television, blocking my access to the
microwave, sink, and garbage. Hence, subjugated to another room, I won't be
in the kitchen when he begins flailing his arms around, unable to speak or
breathe.

 

Then again, it could conveniently occur if he were to fall and hit his head
while shoveling snow from the driveway. I could stumble upon him a few hours
later on my walk to the mailbox, but I'm afraid it would be too late. There
would be some consolation, I suppose - I've heard that freezing to death
isn't the worst way to go.

 

Tonight, in his sleep, I wonder if he will succumb to a stroke. However, in
that event, he could linger for some time, incapacitated and totally
dependent upon me. Payback's a bitch, I warn him.

 

# # #

 

 

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