The Bloody Divorce

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   The Bloody Divorce by FR Jameson

      The brute had choked on my fingers.

      After all I’d hit her with – all I’d done to her – she died when my digits got caught in her throat. I’d smashed in the side of her head, throttled her, and she only stopped when she was unable to swallow my severed fingers.

      I held her down, jamming my hand to her mouth and nose. Her eyes bulged magnificently. I nearly laughed at how funny they looked, blue eyes filled with red from all the capillaries I’d burst. She shook her head and tried to get me off – but I held my hand tight, grinning the whole time.

      As her air ran out it was like she was having a fit, her head and body jerking in desperation to live. I squeezed her, my hand like a concrete gag over her mouth – and so I don’t know what the heck happened.

      Suddenly my little finger and ring finger were in her mouth. Somehow she must have forced her lips open and my fingers just slipped in. She took a gasp of breath before I even realized it had happened – and then she sank her teeth in.

      They often say that a person does something because their live depends on it, well her live did depend on this and she didn’t waste the opportunity. She clamped her jaw together hard and suddenly there was pain shooting back through my fingers and my knuckles were spewing blood.

      It was my turn to scream and her turn to laugh. I still had my hand over her mouth and nose, the only gap had my fingers jammed within it – but she still laughed.

      I held her, determined to finish her off – and she bit down, determined to give me pain. I screamed and she smiled and it seemed we were stuck like that for hours. You could undoubtedly have counted it in seconds, but that last coming together – the final moment of intimacy between man and wife – seemed to go on for most of the night.

      The pain was horrifying. Her teeth were sharp and I could feel them – hear them – break the skin and pierce the flesh, then sink through the muscle. I could actually sense the air on the bone of my little finger, see the movement of her jaw as her teeth ground against it.

      Then there were her eyes. They’d been so frightened, they’d shown her desperation for air – but now they were knowing, smug (that smugness I’d always hated.) They were triumphant. She was the one beaten and nearly broken, and she stared at me as if she was the winner. (Did she recognize me through the mask? Did she know it was the look which would annoy me most?)

      Her victorious eyes shone up and my blood bubbled at her lips as if lava. She was gnawing at my fingers, but my hand was still jammed to her mouth and there was nowhere for the blood to go – so it poured out over her jaw.

      Forget it! – I told myself – there had to be an easier way to kill her. So I let her go, pulled back.

      That was a mistake. The quick motion allowed her to tear off the two fingers, actually rip them away with her teeth.

      I screamed and fell backwards, bringing my hand to my chest – the blood spraying all over me.

      She laughed as I screamed. She knew who it was, had clearly recognized the voice.

      The brute chortled and guffawed, but then spasmed. Her eyes bulged again, her legs kicked, her arms flailed. Her lips were smeared red, but there was now a thick milky saliva spurting out between them. Her hand tried to go for her mouth, but she wasn’t coordinated enough anymore and just thrashed around on the carpet.

      The sight of her took my pain away. After the last ten minutes of trying to kill her, it was interesting to watch her die from a safe distance. She more than had it coming to her.

      Suddenly she was still. I kept back though – it was just the kind of sneaky thing she’d try, pretend to be dead to sucker me in for a final attack. (I had broken into her flat to kill her that night, but she was the real ruthless one.) I waited a couple of minutes – until I was sure that she was completely motionless, that the blue of her face had turned a deathly grey,

      Finally, I got up from the floor and stood over her.

      Agnes. My darling Agnes. We’d been so happy together on our wedding day, appeared so shiny in those photos – and to think that within five years I’d break into your new home to kill you.

      It wasn’t an easy decision to take, I’m not a murderer by nature. But after the last year of her setting the standard when it came to marital strife, when it came to being a ʼn of the highest order – well, I thought it was the sensible thing to do.

      Here was my brilliant plan:

      I’d sneak into the country, break into her flat, kill Agnes, burn the place down to stop the authorities finding any errant DNA, go back abroad and act out the grieving – but still embittered – husband.

      It was perfect – and it all went well until I jumped out of the shadows at her.

      And then, I don’t know, it was almost as if she was expecting it.

      She was nimble – although never the smallest woman, she was surprisingly quick. She dropped her shoulder and got out of my way, and then smashed her weight into my arm. The knife tumbled from my hand.

      It didn’t matter. I grabbed her head and pounded it into the wall. She even shook that off, smacking me just above the groin.

      I threw her to the floor. We both went down, but I was quicker and sat on her – wrapping my hands around her throat. Her nails scratched into my eyes, so I knocked her hands back, jammed my knees to her arms, then tried to smother her.

      It had been harder than I thought, I’d lost two fingers.

      But that didn’t matter now, she was dead.

      All I had to do was remove any evidence of my culpability. That meant I had to burn down her flat (I had some kerosene waiting) but first I had to get my fingers back.

      I slowly approached the body – even though she looked dead she might still surprise. I held my left hand to my shoulder, keeping it above my heart, slowing the blood somewhat. It had sprayed across me and across the carpet, but that didn’t matter as it would burn. If I left my fingers inside her however, the autopsy guys would find them no matter how hot it got.

      It was strange to look at her dead. If it wasn’t for the dishevelment of her clothes, the bruises to her face, the blood and other fluids now caked to her jaw – then she’d have looked almost passive lying there. Her mouth closed in a nice little pout, her eyes shut as if in slumber, her cheeks and nose still the same smooth alabaster I’d once been foolish enough to fall in love with.

      I knelt at her side – going down on two knees for the final farewell – then I reached for those lips that had snarled more than they’d kissed.

      My left hand was still to my shoulder, so I reached out with my weaker right – it was cleaner, less bloody. I moved cautiously. She clearly wasn’t breathing, but I couldn’t believe she’d really gone. I had to think she might bite again.

      I touched her lips, still warm, and pulled them back. I nervously slipped my fingers into the bloody darkness of her mouth. My hand flinched as it touched the enamel of her teeth, that was cold and sticky. For a moment the fingers hesitated, but I made them go forward again, to prise open her jaw.

      Oh no! Her jaw had locked.

      Somewhere at the point of death it had sealed itself tight.

      I already knew I’d been too noisy, that there’d been too many bangs and screams this evening – there were a lot of flats in this building after all – but I still couldn’t help but wail.

      How was this happening to me? She was dead – how was she still managing to thwart me?

      I had to be fast. I jumped up – nearly losing my balance – and stumbled through to the back of the flat. I’d left my crow-bar lying on the kitchen work surface.

      It was a good size piece of metal, I’d used it on the back door, but when I looked down at it and looked down at her I realized a dreadful thing – I was going to have to use both hands to get that jaw open.

      My left hand throbbed with pain, I could hear my heart race, I could feel the vibrations at the jagged nerve endings where my fingers should be. And now I was going to wind my hands around cold metal and use it to force open this dead brute’s mouth.

      I swallowed and then bit down on both cheeks, my teeth going in so hard they almost drew blood – distracting myself from my fingers.

      My hands wound around the crow-bar, and I could feel a horrible coldness where my missing digits should be. I pushed the tip of the iron tool between her teeth.

      For a moment I stared at her. She was so passive, so still, I’d almost say peaceful – but then I knew what a warlike cow she’d been. I watched my blood trickle down that bar and squirmed.

      Quickly I levered it up.

      There was an incredible crack as her jaw separated, a resounding noise that was clearly organic and echoed through the room.

      Her head shot back, her mouth suddenly wider than it was ever meant to be – and her eyes jumped open to stare at me.

      I fell backwards, a scream let out. I landed on my bad hand and yelped again. I’d hit the floor at the precise point where my fingers should be, and a dreadful sickening pain reverberated through me.

      Slowly I pulled my hand up and blew on it, as if that was going to make any difference. I sat up slowly, trying to stop the sweat and sick within me, as well as the light-headedness and panic that was gradually creeping up. I told myself to be calm, and then looked over to her eyes.

      They were staring straight at me, directly at where I was. They were filled with that same all-knowing, smug confidence I’d always hated.

      I screamed again, the shock shaking my system. It was when I stopped that I heard the noise.

      There was somebody knocking on her front door.

      “Agnes? Agnes?” a young male voice called. “Are you okay in there?”

      Speed was clearly everything.

      There was still time to set a fire, I just had to get my fingers back. The fire would get rid of the DNA on the carpet, on the walls, but if I left my fingers inside her they were going to find them and use them to identify me. (I would be the man without fingers, I’d be easy to spot.)

      I used my right hand to reach into her mouth. It was warm and sticky with blood and thick saliva, her tongue lay bulbous at her throat.

      “Agnes!” the voice cried. “Are you in there? What’s going on?”

      The light wasn’t great and I couldn’t hit the switch without giving away to the nosey neighbor that there was someone at home. I closed my eyes and just went by touch, slipping the tongue back and reaching in.

      There it was.

      I could feel one of them. It was small and slippery, but I got a grip on it and pulled it out. It was my little finger.

      I held it up, it was bruised and bloody and broken. I could never have it reattached (too many questions) but at least I had it. I put it in my pocket. My fingers had been in my pockets a million times before, but this was first time the fact ever made me shiver.

      “Agnes!” the voice was agitated now. “Are you in there? I’ll get my keys!”

      Blast! He had his own keys.

      I had to get the finger and start the conflagration.

      My right hand reached in again, knowing the way this time, easing past her tongue and into her throat for my ring finger. The digits of my right hand went down and felt around the dark recesses of her gullet, searching for that one final piece of me.

      How far away did this neighbor live? Up a flight of stairs presumably. Her keys probably wouldn’t be on open display though, so he’d have to find them – but he’d still be back soon.

      My fingertips hunted in the thick damp of her throat, searching for my missing digit. Where was it? I couldn’t feel it. where the heck was it?


      She had swallowed it. She’d actually swallowed my ring finger, taken the whole thing down before choking – somehow – on my little finger. How’d she done that? What the hell was I going to do? Slice her open and pull it from whichever part of her digestive tract it had reached?

      No. I didn’t have time.

      I pulled my hand back and put it to my forehead. Years ago she’d taken that finger – we’d exchanged wedding bands, but I thought she’d trapped me with hers and hated her for it. And now she’d trapped me again.

      It was supposed to be so simple, so easy – it was going to be the perfect murder. Instead she’d fought, made it longer and louder than it should have been. It wasn’t even worth setting the fire anymore, they’d still know it was me.

      What was I going to do?

      What could I do?

      I sat there – my hand pumping blood, my head light – beside the battered corpse of my wife.

      Once upon a time – before I met her – I was a decent man.

      The neighbor’s keys slipped into the lock.




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