The Good Dinner

Reads: 401  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
I never planned to kill my wife. You most certainly will think I am a disgusting old man, but I also believe, in the end, you will also understand. All we can ask for in this life is understanding.

Submitted: October 26, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 26, 2014

A A A

A A A


 

The Good Dinner

By

Christy Aldridge

 

 

I hadn't always wanted to kill my wife, and I knew that, though the thought would surely send me to Hell, I couldn't help myself from thinking about it. Once upon a time, I had loved my wife dearly, and I guess a part of me still did. A part of me might always love her, despite my various reasons (which I will explain shortly, I swear), for wanting her dead. I had vowed till death do us part, but Death had taken it's sweet time getting here, and I was getting impatient.

I wasn't sure if I had even planned to kill my wife. I couldn't give you an exact day, or a certain event that screamed to me and sent this evil thought into my head, only that it was there. One day, I had simply woken up, and decided I was going to kill her.

Not that I knew how I was going to do it. I had never killed anyone before, and though I had always been a good, southern man, I had never killed an animal either. I simply had no interest in shooting at defenseless animals.

A part of me didn't see my wife as a defenseless woman, though in all truth and honesty, she was. She depended on me for everything, unable to do anything for herself because of her weight (which I will also explain shortly).

I saw her more as a skid mark on the world's theoretical underwear. A pimple on the world's theoretical butt. A hemorrhoid in the world's theoretical crapper.

As her husband, surely it was my duty to take care of her. Despite being an aging old man myself, if I wasn't there to wipe her butt, or clean her, who would? It wasn't like we could afford a nurse, and even so, I wouldn't put a poor woman (or man, they have men nurses now) through that torture. Carol was my responsibility. I had vowed through sickness, and in health, and though I think the fact that her sickness was brought on by herself should have been a scapegoat for that contract, she was my wife, and I had hoped she might do the same for me if the tables were flipped.

I also knew that as a member of society, it was also my job to rid the world of this awful disease that shared my last name. This disease that had been brought on by her own doing. I know I could blame a million different people (McDonald's, KFC, that Chinese restaurant that delivered), but the truth of the matter was my wife's disease was of her own doing.

No one had forced that Big Mac into her mouth. Just like no one told that she had to eat the entire pizza. No one had ever put a gun to my wife's head and threatened death if she didn't eat the entire bucket of chicken.

The truth of the matter was, Carol had done it all to herself.

I guess now would be a good time to explain my main issue, and the reason for my strange project. You should know the true reason I hated my wife, or at least, I considered it the main reason.

My wife is four hundred and sixty seven pounds of living, breathing, fat. Do you see my problem?

Oh, I'm sure many of you are judging me by now. A choice few have already moved along to the next fascinating paper with words, and have decided I am a dump on their precious psyche. Those people are right, and they are the smart ones. However, they are also the people who choose not to face this side of themselves. They pretend to be normal, and if they had continued to read, would look down on me as if I were some lunatic.

They are the true lunatics. They are the ones who push it down and ignore it all until it explodes. They pretend not to have these thoughts as I have, and will call me crazy.

Go ahead. I probably am. However, I know I am crazy, and I will admit it. Can you say the same?

No sane individual wants to kill someone, that is true, but it is also true that no sane individual could be happy while living in my situation. The greasy, white balls that form under each layer of fat because of the baby powder I have to coat on her to keep from creating heat, or the smell that emanates from between her legs because it's given no room to breathe? No sane person could live with it, so why should I?

It wasn't like I could put her in a nursing home, or send her to a facility that handled things like this. There is no such place, and even if there were, I couldn't afford it. I live month to month off one singular check provided by the government. My retirement was drained by the massive credit card debt that came with Carol having all hours of the day to search the web, and the residual amount that she needed after the food stamps to keep the Little Debbie corporation in business. I believe Little Debbie is the Devil, and her plan is to kill us off one Honey Bun and Nutty Bar at a time, a plan that has worked favorably against my wife.

I tried to do my husbandry duty. Back when she was two-fifty, I had suggested we go walking together. I had promised I would go every day to the school track, and we could work out together. I tried to convince her that I needed her support as much as she needed mine in the battle against the bulge.

She shut me up with a Swiss Roll.

I continued to suggest exercise until she hit three hundred. Once I knew she was over that mountain, I started hiding her cakes. If she bought a box, I threw it away, and when she asked for it, I blamed it on her aging mind. 'No, honey, I haven't seen the Nilla Wafers. You must have forgotten them at the store.' Or 'Are you sure you bought them? You know how our mind slips the older we get.' It worked for a while, but I couldn't tell if she was losing weight because of this. My assumption is that she wasn't.

Then, she got smart on me. The food never made it to the kitchen. The grocery bags, or the ones with the rectangular boxes and that smiling little girl on the corner, went straight to the bedroom, and under her side of the bed. We were sleeping in the room together back then, but a year later, my things had found themselves into the guest bedroom, and she remained trapped in ours.

She had been making an effort to get up, go to the store, and keep our house moderately clean, but it seemed like all at once, she was handing me the grocery list, and never getting up from the bed.

'Honey, my ankles hurt!' she would plead. Her ankles were the size of three of the Krispy Kreme donuts that she guzzled down every other morning, because she preferred them fresh and hot.

And every time she would make an excuse such as this, I restrained the urge to tell her that she was the reason they hurt. If she would pick her lard butt up and make an effort, or do as my daddy use to tell my mama, and push the plate away. Push yourself from the dinner table.

I didn't. Not because I cared about her feelings. By the time she reached three-fifty, I didn't give a rat's dropping about her feelings. She was too busy eating them.

I didn't say anything because I realized there was no point in doing so. She had killed the beautiful, and thin, woman I had married with processed foods and chocolate covered cakes. Any attempt to bring that woman back were futile and would end in complete terror.

So, for the next five years, I kept my mouth shut and did as she said. I was the good husband.

Like I said, then one day, I knew I was going to kill her.

I know this is the part you really want to know about. You can deny it, but the truth is, you would have stopped reading already if you didn't. You want to know exactly what I did to my gluttoneous wife, and I use that term because that is the sin she was committing. She was a gluten, and the Bible said you shouldn't be.

I'll tell you exactly how I killed my wife, but you might not like it. You might read my words with eyes wide and your breath caught in your throat, or, you might just think I'm another raving lunatic.

I'll tell you what I think. I think I killed my wife with poetic justice. It only made sense that sense my wife couldn't stop eating, I should kill her with her favorite habit. She might as well die the same way she had been living: eating.

My plans were not extravagant. If anything, the were blase and predictable. I'd simply stuff her with food, literally. I'd shove it all into her throat, and keep shoving it in until she couldn't breathe anymore.

Ingenious? No.

I cooked a large dinner for her. Steak, with home made mashed potatoes and gravy, cornbread, fried okra, fried squash, coleslaw, sour cream, baked potatoes, and for dessert, a large, thirteen layer chocolate cake, my mother's recipe.

You should have seen how large her eyes got as I brought up our dinner. I waited long enough for our anniversary to come so I would have a reason for this exuberant meal.

She ate it up.

I watched her, slowly cutting my steak as she ate like a hog eats slop. The slurps, and smacks that came from her mouth were disgusting enough, but watching her lick the grease or juice from her fingers, knowing that it was all traveling down her throat, adding one, two, three more pounds, I had to look away so I wouldn't vomit and ruin it all.

She was halfway through her meal when she looked to me with a smile (I won't describe the revulsion I felt as seeing my cooking on her teeth) and thanked me for being so sweet. It was then, staring at that gleaming face that was satisfied with food as a fiftieth anniversary present, that I knew it was time to live out the deed.

When I stood, I believe with all my heart, she thought I was going to kiss her, maybe even make love to her. When I say I wouldn't have been able to find it, I mean it literally. I hadn't truly seen it in almost ten years, and I say this with Scouts Honor.

I didn't fulfill what fantasy she had in her mind. I knew she hadn't expected me to shove the piece of cornbread into her mouth. Her eyes had shot open like I had just rammed a bullet into her chest, and she started clawing at my hands.

I didn't care about any marks. By the time any one knew she was gone, they would be faded. Tiny little scars that no one would notice beneath my aging skin.

I shoved my fingers into her mouth, pushing the cornbread farther in, and that was when her hands moved from mine, to her throat. I watched her struggle to breath as I began to force the baked potato into her mouth to follow.

'You like my cooking, don't you, babe?' I asked, pushing my fingers as deep into her throat as I could. I could feel the food trying to come back up, but I would not allow that. I would slice her neck before I allowed her to live.

'I cooked this meal just for you,' I told her. She gurgled a response, and though I have no idea what she was trying to say to me, I also don't really care. As long as she was dying, I didn't care.

There was no blood in this matter. I had assumed it might start pouring from her eyes from the pressure, as it sometimes did in the horror movies. I also thought her eyes might pop out, but they didn't do that either.

Her face was turning that warning shade of blue, losing oxygen, and I smiled as I continued to shove more in. I laughed too, and I enjoyed watching her slowly die, knowing it was her fault. She had ultimately killed herself.

I know you were expecting blood and guts. I'm sorry if I've let you down when it comes to my actually killing her. She suffocated. Nothing messy.

Now, I'm guessing, you want to know what I did with the body. She was so large, I could not lift her on my own. No one would help me (it does not take a rocket scientist to know this), and there was no possible way I could dig a hole large enough for her body. I could have left her upstairs to rot, but the neighbors would smell, and it would take so long for her body to reduce to nothing but bones.

I think most of you, the ones who are reading and understanding, and don't find me completely revolting, will enjoy how I disposed of her body. It was simple really, if you were thinking like a vengeful husband who loved a good twist.

I ate my wife.

Don't get the heeby jeebies on me now. You saw it coming. How else to get rid of your large wife than to eat her? It was a good plan, and you know it.

I used my daddy's meat cleaver to chop her up. The process took a few hours, and I didn't fall asleep until the sun was beginning to rise up over the pine trees. Our bedroom was a mess, but that was okay too. No one ever came to visit.

After a few hours of sleep, I cleared out my large freezer, and began to wrap my wife's body parts into freezer safe bags. I had chopped her body into smaller sizes, and convincingly enough that upon first glance, you would only think I had a vast amount of chicken. Her skin had that same fleshy tone as a chicken does.

And then, I began to eat her.

If the police couldn't find a body, they couldn't prove a murder. I know they have these fancy devices to find such things out, but you have to understand, our town was so incredibly small, it didn't really matter. The story I began to give the people, after having ate half of her body, was that she had ran away from me to be with a man she met online. This was plausible from the emails I had accidentally found. She had been speaking with a man (licketysplit17) for months. I had even seen the picture she had used to show him what she looked like. It was from her teenage years. I thought it was funny that he might have met her one day, and boy, would he have been duped.

My one issue had been her bones, but I tossed those one by one into the fireplace and let them burn. They turned to ash, just as the Bible said we all would do.

Eventually, her entire body was gone, and I, being ten pounds heavier, was rid of my wife. Every single piece of her was in the sewer, and there was nothing left for the police to find after I bleached the entire bedroom three times. When they came, I was calm, and even urged them to look in the bedroom. 'Look, look, see how good I cleaned. See how amazingly I washed her blood from the walls.'

And eventually, she was no longer an issue. She was just another bored housewife who ran away from a loveless marriage.

And I was left.

I won't lie. My existence has been lonely. Sometimes, I pass her bedroom and I stop. When I'm sleeping, I sometimes hear her still calling my name, but in time, I believe those, too, will disappear down the crapper.


© Copyright 2019 xxredvelvetxxx. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Horror Short Stories