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...
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
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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.
