Alternate ending to ‘Lamb to the Slaughter’

The strength that comes with the knowledge that you are a threat is an extraordinary thing. It does one of two things to a person. One: it makes you feel invincible, though you most likely are not. Two: it makes you think, ‘I’m not the bad guy…am I?’

Whatever you do, whatever happens, there’s Death. If it’s when you expect it least or most, you can’t hide. You see, Death can look into you like your eyes are open doors. You don’t get that anywhere else. You are born. You live. You die. End of story.

Now, imagine that this life is a fairy tale, not an ordinary open book. Life is offered again. Another life, yes, but it is life. What do you do? Will you relive everything in your new skin, give it another go, or die to ‘rest in peace’? Is it worth it one way or another?

The strength that comes with the knowledge that you are a threat is an extraordinary thing. It makes you wonder…‘Was I the bad guy?’

--

Mary Maloney was tormented on the inside, sick with worry, though she worked not to show it. She was bombarded with questions. What did he mean by it? Did I do the right thing? What if I didn’t? What if I killed him…for no reason at all? She couldn’t escape the thought of her recently deceased husband, although she tried, and tried, and tried.

These questions made her wonder what might have happened had she not killed him. There were so many possibilities, but one in particular frightened her to no end. What if…

Her husband, Patrick, came home with some grave news, which he whispered gently in her ear. It took a few minutes for everything to come out. She let out a gasp, startled. Mary watched her husband, forgetting about her plans and questions for dinner. He was so quiet, not saying a word.

He sat down in his favorite chair—the old rocking chair by the fireplace. He rocked slowly, watching the day’s fire die. The chair creaked, and Mary began her cooking without a word. She didn’t know what else to do, but she had to do something. Anything.

She told herself to just keep busy; something would come to mind. She would know what to do—she only needed some time to think it over. Mary had to come up with an idea—even a single word to say, to break the silence…but nothing came to mind. She didn’t know what to do, or how she was supposed to act after what he had told her. She was dumbfounded.

Mary looked at him. He was still rocking, the chair making annoyingly squeaky noises. She hated when he did that…All he did as she worked was watch the embers as they cooled, not seeming to care about anything else. He was playing mute. Either he could not find words either, or he really didn’t care.

It was getting darker, and neither of them had spoken. Mary was getting fidgety. She felt like yelling or crying…perhaps both at once. Who knows? She couldn’t go on without asking so much as, “Why?”

As she opened her mouth, she was interrupted. “Mary,” he began, “come here, will you?”

She did as he asked, slowly walking over to stand next to her husband in the old rocker. She wondered what he could possibly have to say, waiting for him to speak again. “Yes?”

“Closer.”

She leaned in. “What is it?”

His voice was low and gruff. “I’m sorry.”

Mary’s eyes shut, a tear falling down her cheek. “You—”

Patrick cut her off, but not with words. He had picked up the fire poker when she was distracted. He swung it and struck her in the back of the head. She never had a chance to react, it was so sudden. She was dead before she fell to the ground.

Patrick stood up quickly, catching her. He did not want to get blood on the carpeting. He picked her up in both arms, carried her outside, placed her on the ground, and fetched a shovel from the tool shed. Soon, Patrick began to dig, just next to their small vegetable garden. He dug a deep hole. They would never find her.

The deed was done. An hour later, the hole was dug, and she was inside it. She was covered in the soil, buried for eternity. She wouldn’t be a burden to him any more.

Patrick sat inside the house, lighting a new fire to warm himself. He sighed, leaning back into his favorite chair and rocking back and forth, back and forth. He fell asleep by the firelight, dreaming of his new life. A life without Mary.

Mary shook her head, a shiver running down her spine from the very thought of it. She had to remind herself, He’s dead, and the thought brought the tiniest of smiles to her lips. Good.