Smirk

As I sat there, watching his face as he slowly suffocated to death, I couldn't stop myself from forming a small smile. Actually, it was more like a smirk, a smirk that held all the emotions I had been withholding since the time I decided Tom had to die. And let me tell you kids, it is a shitload of emotions, a freaking huge shitload of emotions. I suppose you are wondering what kind of homicidal maniac would sit and smirk as the color drained out of the face of her husband. Stare intently without feeling as his hands convulsed and strained the skin around our wedding band. I suppose you even wonder why you are reading this much into a story that is obviously written by an extremely disturbed person.

When I used to shop for books, I was strictly a judge-a-book-by-its-cover kind of girl. If you weren't flashy enough to attract my attention, I wouldn't give you a second look. I suppose that is how I got involved with Tom in the first place. You see, Tom is very flashy, or at least he was. Tom isn't doing any much of anything right now.

Where was I? Oh right. When I found a book that caught my eye I would skim the back cover and if the short description really interested me, maybe I would read the first page. Maybe. Tom was like a book. Tom was flashy and had an amazing back cover. Tom had a rock solid ass that moved like a smooth machine when he strutted through the room. His Italian suits would mold to it like a second skin, and the scent of expensive cologne would follow him like a riptide pulling everyone towards him.

Now as I stand up and walk over to his body, slumped in his favorite rocker, I wonder if his ass was still carved out of marble, even in death. A shrug pulled at my shoulders at that thought, but only the chair gets a squeeze now. The leather chair that we had made love on two weeks after we met and fucked on the day we met. I hated that chair, it was an ugly brown color and reminded me of when I was a child and I hid behind my furniture while my mother went into drunken binges. He loved that chair. Maybe I should burn him in it.

If you haven't decided you've had enough of me by now, I suppose I have gotten you hooked. You want to know why. You want to know how I went from the woman in the bookstore looking for a good read to the woman heading to the grill to look for some lighter fluid. You want to know when I became this way, and I think some of you want to know what it feels like. Don't worry I won't tell your secret. We all have our secrets. Tom's was Hanna.

His sex slave. Go ahead read that twice. The words aren't going to change. Tom had a sex slave, and you thought you have relationship problems. Of course, I didn't know about Tom's sex slave and his little business of renting her and others out until two Wednesdays ago when a balding middle aged man dropped Hanna, dead, onto Tom's and my doorstep and demanded a refund. You should have seen this prick, he just stood there, dead body laying between him and me and held out his meaty hand like I owed him something. The nerve, as if I was going to say "Oh, ok!" and prance inside to get a roll of twenty dollar bills. It wasn't exactly in my daily schedule to deal with that. My "To Do" list didn't say refund dead sex slave after pedicure.

Was I upset? Hmm. Was I upset that the man I loved, that I trusted, the man I believed to be a proper father for possible future children was selling fourteen year old girls from other countries to nymphomanias to pay for my HBO? He's dead, isn't he?

I suppose I should have seen some sort of sign. After all, he had to pay for all of our things somehow, and I doubt his job selling stocks got us four BMW's in the garage in less than a month. But what I can say, I was a little distracted; he was delicious, from his top to his bottom. I know, I know, I need to move on from his backside, but if you had seen it. I mean women on the street used to stop and stare.

You never have a light when you need one; where did he keep that expensive gold lighter again?

I think it was his smile, and there is no sense playing innocent okay, his body, his confidence that made me marry him. He was perfect. Well, I thought so. When I confronted Tom about his business he hit me. Not immediately, but after some choice words on my part he saw it fit to "put me in my place." It was about then, as I lay on the floor bloodied, a small Asian girl dead not more than ten feet away from me I decided that Tom had to die. Why didn't I kill him them? I did mention the bloodied part, right? Well, let's just say the cliché "the hits just keep on coming" applied perfectly to this situation. Tom was never one to let a moment of passion pass him by, and when I hit the floor he saw it 'fit' to kick me until he was sure that I wasn't getting back up. He didn't stop until I started screaming. He always loved the way I screamed, especially when we used his favorite chair. I now know that he liked it when most women screamed, especially the ones he threw into the ugly hands of his customers.

I will admit that I was a little selfish about it. I made sure we did what we did best one more time. He chose his favorite chair and for the first time I didn't say one word. One last time we used that chair in the way it was intended to move before I tied him up for what he believed would be a little more fun. Tom even told me to tie then knot a little tighter, he could still wiggle loose. Thanks, Hunny! He never saw it coming as the blindfold he thought was intended for his eyes slipped down lower, and just a little bit lower. He even thought I was just getting kinky as I twisted and pulled. He was so cocky. How could anyone kill the great Tom Arnold? Certainly not the punching bag of a wife who was beaten for wanting to protect a child. I watched the light drain out his eyes as he struggled to pull loose, rocking the chair violently. I almost fell off, can't say that I didn't enjoy our last ride though. I giggled and kissed him roughly all over his face as it slowly turned red and then blue, sliding finally into purple as the chair stilled. He just didn't think I was strong enough. Well Tom, sweetie, baby, I'm strong enough to light this match. But you are also right, my husband. I'm just not strong enough to wipe this smirk from my face.