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The Disease Mrs. Davies Gave Me

That's the beautiful thing about a marriage: each partner gets something special from the arrangement.

Take the Davies, for instance. Mrs. Davies found love. And Mr. Davies, well, he found a purpose...

The Disease Mrs. Davies Gave Me by Mike McCrary


I blew their heads off.

Way off.

Strangely, from the neck down stayed. Their heads, however, scattered in multiple locations around the hotel room.

So what.

If that makes me an asshole, so be it. You’re not going to like me, so if you find me of the asshole variety let’s just cut to the chase, okay? At some point you might feel a touch sorry for me but in the end, without question, you will hope we never meet.

The two now-headless wonders were involved in a passionate, sexually charged relationship. The only problem, one of them, the attractive female for the record, was my spouse.

Mrs. Davies.

The guy?

Well, the guy was a close friend—isn’t it always? That buddy that you trusted to pick-up your wife from the airport that one time. They stopped to have a drink. Why not? They talked and talked and talked. They connected on a level that they never knew existed. Connecting like she once did with me, she probably thought. She probably rationalized the sloppy sex by thinking I ignored her anyway and this man was present and happy to pay attention to her in ways I hadn’t.

I understood. I had grown somewhat distant. That happens when you have a high-flying, high-paying job and time is stretched beyond reason. The traveling. The hours. I do understand, but let’s be clear on this one point. I never cheated on her, never abused her verbally or physically in any way, shape or form.

Aside from blowing her head off, but come on, that was later down the road.

When I found out I wasn’t furious like you might think. No breaking things, screaming obscenities or drinking into oblivion. I swallowed those urges deep, deep down in a special place. A quiet little cellar that houses the hurt. It holds all the memories then rips them open jamming a fork in digging, twisting the thin flesh that’s tried to heal over the unmentionable parts of your life. Childhood, things the family did and didn’t do and, oh yeah, all the shitty things adults have done.

The people you trusted the most. When they betray you, those are the tough ones, man.

You see, something inside me unhitched. Maybe it was the final snap in a lifetime of snaps, I don’t know, but I do know the hurt was followed by immediate, calming warmth. A burning inside that comes from confidence, confidence that comes from finally understanding oneself.

The only true way to let the mad out was not up for debate. I’m a man who keeps his feelings, his past to himself. I never shared with Mrs. Davies my upbringing or the varieties of abuse I endured as a boy. All that was bottled up and kept in the cellar waiting, waiting to flow. I never realized any of this until I found out about them; then it was clear. So obvious. I’d known it my whole life and I’d just needed someone to shove. Mrs. Davies had no idea she was unlocking me, but that’s the bitch with unintended consequences, I suppose.

I followed them to their hotel room, kicked in the door and blew those heads off. They were groggy from a post-orgasmic haze so it was easy to get the jump on them.

To be honest, it felt amazing. Not from the sweet release of vengeance, well not completely, it was from this lifelong itch that just got clawed to satisfaction. I liken it to an athlete who gets that first home run, first touchdown. That exhilaration, that pure joy, there’s no substitute. It’s this debilitating addiction of a disease, and, buddy, there’s no cure.

Unsatisfied masters don’t let go.

I should thank her. Mrs. Davies allowed me to uncork my disease and let it feed. If she’d been a good wife, if we’d talked more, maybe all this wouldn’t have happened. But it did.

It’s been months since I blew their heads off.

Way off.

I’ve killed others since. I treat myself once a week.

Mostly homeless, then prostitutes, but I might try high school kids next.

Thank you, Mrs. Davies.


Mike McCrary has worked as a screenwriter and is currently working on a debut crime novel. He stumbled through an Economics degree, somehow got an MBA, and has been a waiter, a dishwasher, an equity trader, investment manager and an unpaid Hollywood intern. He’s quit corporate America, come back, been fired, been promoted, been fired again, and currently, from his home in Texas, he writes. Check out Mike's new novella Getting Ugly available now. Follow his adventures on Twitter: http://twitter.com/mcmccrary