A single tear slid across his cheek. He forced himself to look into her eyes, eyes that were full of intense anger mixed with true searing hatred, eyes that had once held such a pure love for him. She lashed out and hit him again. The pain seared across his collar bone where the blow landed, he cringed, but managed to make no sound.
“How dare you!’ she screamed, kicking him with all her strength. “Where is it?! Did you hear me? Give it to me now!’
His tears fell freely, “Please baby, please don’t, you don’t need it”, he whispered, gently holding her shoulders. She violently shrugged away from his touch. “Please?” he begged, letting his arms fall limply to his sides.
“Don’t you dare touch me”, she seethed.
“Please baby, please don’t, please”, he mumbled incoherently.
She glared at him, “I’ll kill you!” she screamed. “Tell me where it is!”
“I… I can’t –“, she kicked him again, and again, and again, until he lay on the floor, barely conscious. She stepped on him with the heels of her stilettos, until his legs were bruised and bloody. He finally screamed out in pain.
“Where is it?” she asked him. He looked at her and tried to plead with her with his eyes. “Tell me!” She screamed, throwing a vase at him. It broke on his skin, the glass cutting into his bare chest.
“Third drawer.” He managed, ‘in the phone book, page 347”. She scrambled to the drawer, tearing the phone book from inside. Her eyes were wild, she craved it, craved the fix so badly that she was shaking and it was hard to make her hands turn the pages. She tore at them, hastily trying to find it, and when she did her eyes went wide the excitement. A small clear bag, marked H filled with a white powder lay on the page. It looked so harmless, so blameless. She snatched it from the embrace of the old book, taking no notice of anything now that she had what she so badly desired.
He watched her as she took a dirty spoon from the side of the sink to mix the drug, being so careful not to let it spill. He didn’t say anything as she transferred the drug into a needle, and lined it up to her vein. He cringed as he saw her drive the needle into her skin, as she felt it, as she became intoxicated with it, no longer aware of her surroundings.
He couldn’t bear to look at her. Ignoring the pain in his legs, he stood. He walked out of the kitchen where she lay and into their bedroom, he approached the dresser and changed into long pants to hide his damaged legs and then out the door of the large, multi-million dollar apartment.
He walked in a nondescript way, as carefully as he could without limping or grimacing from the pain each step shot through his entire body. He didn’t want anyone to know she’d beat him.
“Evening Erik”, Gregorio said politely as he held the door.
“Good evening”, he said politely.
Gregorio smiled, “Will you be gone long, sir?” he queried, taking an umbrella from the stand and handing it to him.
“No, just out for a walk, for some fresh air, I’ll be back soon”, said Erik, as he continued out the door into the cool of the early evening, he paused “Hey Greg, did you catch the game last night?”
He laughed “Yeah, stupid refs though…”
“Indeed,” he said, extending his umbrella to protect him from the light shower of rain and stepping into the street.
Gregorio looked out after his departing, carefully held body. Always such a nice bloke Gregorio thought, giving a shake of his head, thinking of what a shame it all was. Everyone in the building knew what was going on, that she flew into rages and hit him whenever he tried to help her with her drug habit and that nothing he seemed to do ever helped at all.
A million thoughts raced through his mind as he walked down the lonely streets surrounding the apartment block. What if she never woke up? What if she dies? What if it’s all my fault? What if Gregorio checks the apartment and finds her like that?
And it got worse, until he decided who couldn’t take the torture of not seeing her, not knowing if she was okay, whether she was conscious or not.
He headed back to the apartment, quickening his pace, ignoring the pain it caused him as his pants rubbed against his fresh wounds. Gregorio opened the door for him and took the umbrella again.
“Thankyou”, he said as he stepped inside.
“Pleasure”, said Gregorio closing the door again.
Erik walked as calmly up to his apartment on the third floor as he could, forcing his mind blank focusing on his movements and quietly let himself in. He walked into the kitchen to see her lying motionless on the floor.
“Bella?” He whispered, checking his watch. She’s never usually out this long, he thought.
He approached her cautiously, but she didn’t move. “Baby?” he asked. She stayed motionless. “Bella honey can you hear me?” He closed his eyes and braced himself for what he would discover. He kneeled down to touch her skin, his hands reaching for her neck, pressing gently in attempt to feel her pulse. Nothing.
He ran to the door, “Gregorio”, he screamed down through the ornate spiral staircase of the apartments. Moments later Gregorio was at his door, panting a little having just raced up the stairs.
“Yes, sir”, he asked, “What’s happened?”
“I think, I think… Bella’s dead”, Erik said, letting a tear fall from his eye, disbelief shaping his features.
“Where is she?” he asked, panicked.
“Kitchen” he said simply. And Gregorio raced away.
Erik pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled 911. It rang for a moment, and then someone answered.
“Emergency services, name please?”
“Erik Manson” he said in the calmest tone he could muster.
“Do you require medical, fire, or police services” said the voice.
“Medical, please” he replied.
A moment passed and he waited as the phone rustled.
A new voice confronted him, a woman, “do you need an ambulance?”
“Yes”, he replied without emotion.
“And your address?”
“Apartment 8, Hetherington complex, King Street”
A few clicks on a keyboard could be heard through the phone, “and can you please describe your situation for me?”
“Yes,” he paused his jaw clenched as he brought himself to say his next words, “my wife is unconscious, I fear she might be dead, I couldn’t feel a pulse, my, my doorman is tending to her. She has a drug habit, I think she’s overdosed, I don’t know, I went for a walk and came back to find her unconscious”.
“Can you tell me what drug it is she takes?”
“Heroine”
“And your wife’s name?”
“Isabella Manson”
“Thank you, that’s all I need to know, an ambulance is on the way to help you, I need you to stay with her. Do you know CPR?”
“A little”, he said.
“I need you to try and give her CPR until the ambulance arrives, it shouldn’t be long, try to remain calm”.
“I’ll try, thank you”, he said.
The phone disconnected.
He forced himself back to the kitchen where Gregorio was over her, giving her CPR. Erik cringed at the sight of her; she looked so unnaturally pale, lifeless. He sat on the couch and stared in disbelief as Gregorio forced her chest up and down, trying to bring her fragile body to breathe.
He couldn’t handle it, seeing her like this. It was worse than he could’ve ever imagined. The feeling of panic flooded his body, he focused on each breath.
She’s dead he thought. She’ll never wake up, she’ll be gone forever.
He let his tears fall freely. It’s all your fault! He said to himself. He closed his eyes and let his head fall into his hands.
Two men walked into the kitchen dressed in paramedic uniforms with a stretcher, “Mr Manson?” they asked. Erik stood, and they nodded at him. “This is your wife Isabella?”
“Yes”, he said through his tears.
They looked at each other and nodded. One man turned towards Gregorio, “Sir, I need you to stop as we examine her”. Gregorio nodded and moved away from her.
One of the men took a mask from his bag and secured it around her mouth, and attached a pump to it, while the other kneeled next to her and felt for pulse. He shook his head and the other man began pumping air into her in intervals. After several minutes they lifted her onto the stretcher and carried her quickly and smoothly out of the kitchen.
Erik stared in disbelief, things were moving so quickly, his brain was struggling to keep up, but he quickly got to his feet and followed them. They walked down the stairs with such an air of patience and efficiency. Walking out of the apartment block to the ambulance with Erik following, dazed, and acting almost on autopilot, his mind blank.
They opened the back doors and carried her smoothly in. They pulled out the defibrillator and looked for a pulse. Nothing. Erik didn’t need them to tell him, she was dead.
They let him ride in the back with her as they drove back to the hospital. When they got there he was like a body without a soul, without emotion. The doctor talked to him, confirmed she was dead. She said she was sorry for his loss.
“There was nothing to be done”, she said, using calm efficient words, “Once she’d injected the drug there was no turning back. It was only a matter of minutes after she’d taken it that her system started shutting down”.
He looked at the doctor, and nodded.
“She wouldn’t have been in any pain, it was just a bad batch, and a lethal amount of other drugs had been used.”
A bad batch, they said.
There was a police investigation into the cause of her death, she was extremely wealthy after all, but it was more a formality. He was queried, but everyone the police spoke to gave the same story. Lovely couple, she got hooked on drugs, he tried to help but there was no stopping her, so nothing came of it. He was just the grieving husband. He hadn’t killed her, her habit had.
And yet, as the days went on, and with all her money now his, he couldn’t help but think to himself it’s all my fault. They told him it wasn’t, a bad batch, they kept saying.
He knew better.
He killed her.
It wasn’t a bad batch, he mixed it. He killed her himself. He had carefully created a cocktail of drugs to add to the heroine that would not be suspected as unusual, drugs that were used in the manufacturing process, but that could kill if measured incorrectly, routinely used, routinely added to their score.
He killed her – it had worked, he had killed her and gotten away with it.
He couldn’t help but smile.
mwahahaha
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