False accusation

Here I am at Helen’s house, slouching lazily on a dining chair, while admiring her precinct kitchen so lustrous that it sparkles. Her kitchen is always so clean, free of stain and utensils normally found in a working kitchen- an indication that she didn’t utilize her place as much as I did. It is Friday night, a day when I should be most at eased, relaxed, even joyous. Unfortunately, I suffered a constant, pounding migraine that stretched over a week or two, thanks to my fiancé who dumped me with all this damn troubles to sort after, as though I had nothing else to worry about. I need someone to talk to, someone, whom I trust and consult, for Helen is a psychiatrist in profession, and she is my confidante and my best friend. Except that she can’t, for she is now lying on her plain white-carpeted floor, stiff as a corpse. Alive or dead she had already reached the pinnacle of her career. And now this is her final patient, and her last day of work.

………..

I love nighttime. It is the only period when I could just lie down on my bed, after all the washing and the cleaning and the cooking- the usual chores bestowed to a middle-aged woman whose life revolves around the upkeep of her house. Nighttime is also the brief moment when I could see Ben, my husband to be. Although tired and occasionally nonchalant when he returns home, it is nonetheless the unspoken words that speak the loudest. He worked hard till the night all for the love of this house and his fiancée. Ours is not your typical fairy tales story seen on the TV, with its overly romanticized plots and predictable endings. Ours is the reality of a middle class income couples whose love is felt, not heard, subtle and not boisterous. Ben is not the romantic kind of guy anyway. The only time he sent me flowers was when he arrived late to our engagement party a year ago, apologizing profusely for the urgent meeting he got to endure. I took his words, for he is the only man in this planet whom I could trust. But what happened this Friday morning changed all that.

I always have a planned schedule for each morning- House cleaning on Monday, buy groceries on Tuesday, ironing on Wednesday, yoga and meditation on Thursday. On Friday I would do laundry and clean up the closet. Before dumping the basket of clothes into the washing machine, I would inspect the pockets of every clothes, just to ensure that there are no lose change and packet of cigarettes left inside Ben’s pants. I hate cigarettes. The smell of tobacco smeared on every supposedly washed laundry left me disgusted when I failed, a few times, to catch that one single cigarette. I must be vigilant. I reached deep inside the pocket, felt something metal like, crispy and crimpy when crumpled it in my hands. Must be the Fisherman Heads wrapper that Ben enjoys for its spicy taste, I told myself. I pulled out and, not fisherman heads but something different; an opened condom packet rests on the palm of my hand.

.

The kitchen clock strikes 10 pm, Ben is still not home to feed me with his usual lame, impassionate embrace and a peck on the cheek that felt more like a mosquito landing on my face. Didn’t he know his fiancée is waiting grudgingly for him for an explanation? Didn’t he even care that his marriage is at stake, right now, at this moment? Shaking with indignation and hearing my blood pressure pumping, I pulled out from my dining chair and strolled out to catch some fresh air. Fortunately I did. Night breeze is calm and soothing, with flicking lights strategically placed on the bridge to produce an image similar to an aerial view of London Bridge stood across the river Thames. This scene reminds me of the romantic vacation we had at London, where time freezes for us to steal a moment with each other, a moment which became a distant memory slowly drifting away.

Sitting aimlessly on the garden bench. Young couples walking past me, giving me the glance as though I am middle aged women who were in the midst of a divorce. Close, but not totally true since I am not even married yet. Seeing all those couples cuddling and kissing in public made me envious and jealous of them, at the same time felt sad and sporadic for my dire relationship, at the same time shocked at the audacity of youths nowadays to show affection in public. Perhaps they intentionally want to display their love, or show off instead, in front of an audience of broken hearts, to hurt us even more? The reason is not crucial for me to comprehend, not now anyway. Because I recognized someone familiar, strolling the park in deep conversation, akin to a couple if I didn’t notice it. Ben talking with another women, and that bitch is Helen; adorning a chic Chanel dress with high straitlaced heels, my best friend.

I consider myself lucky to have a friend like Helen. She lived a rather successful life, as society denotes her to be. Her career, her beauty, her charming personality and her knowledge about everything made her a perfect mistress, especially so since her boyfriend just broke up with her a few months ago. Nevertheless, it came as a surprise to me that Ben would fell for her, since our relationship is solid as an impenetrable shield, or what I thought to be. Calm down, I told myself. I got to stay calm, or else my anxiety level would kick into me again. On a phone call Helen demanded to see me, something urgent. Yes, this is my chance to get my marriage back into perspective. I reached for the medicine cabinet and withdrew my medicines.

I buzz the doorbell, with feelings of nervousness and of anticipation intertwined; all the while trying to make myself appear as normal as possible so as not to alarm her. Helen opened the door and gesture me to the living room like an old friend. What a performer, I said to myself. All this time she was having an affair with my philandering fiancé and still has the conscious, the audacity to treat me like I am a fool?
‘What happened to your feet?’
‘Suffered from blisters after a run in the park,’ I explained myself when she saw my heavily bandaged foots while pulling out from the slip-ons.
‘Oh, come have a sit, I got something to -.’
‘Nevermind, I am alright,’ I interrupted.
As she was pouring Lays and Ruffles into a large steel bowl, I immediately went straight to her kitchen and helped make two cups of cappuccino. She loves my cappuccino, and never had she been able to master the art of mixing the precise amount of steamed milk with the right teaspoon of coffee powder and boiling water. I secretly draw out a miniscule bottle consist of a colorful concoction of sleeping pills, depression pills and other pills, all finely grinded for easy mixing. ‘Oh Helen you would love this cup,’ I exclaimed to her with utmost pleasure. Sprinkles of vibrant blues, reds and whites dusts fell into her cup, resting on top like the reflection of twinkling stars on the river Thames Ben and I had once admired.
.

I reached home, with intense satisfaction and cruel anticipation on how Ben would react when he reads the news tomorrow. Tormented by depression, famed psychiatrist drugged herself to death! What a headline, the newspaper editors should have me to thank for offering them stories to dish out to the world’s voyeuristic audience. Though I am no professional killer, still I am a domestic housewife, leaving no trace of me on her den. No footprints, as my soles are covered. One cup washed and scrubbed clean, the other cup that killed her was shattered on the floor as she fell. Everything I touched was counted mentally before and scrubbed after her death – the dining chair, buzzer, doorknob, teaspoon, even the kitchen counter, which I didn’t leave a fingerprint but was tempted to scrub. Today is a good day, just like spring-cleaning.

‘Honey I am home.’ I yelled. There is no reply. The house is sequent, every inconspicuous household objects now squeaks like a soft symphony of some sort, hoping to catch my attention. Stepped into our bedroom; our engagement picture hangs proudly on the wall on top of the bed frame, smiling and as happy as the young couples I met yesterday on the park. What a sad reminiscent of our past love, perhaps our engagement is not meant to be? I shrugged off the idea. Without Helen, yes, there is help. The bed has been made, which is strange since Ben doesn’t usually attain the bed. On top of the bed lies a brown envelope. I opened it. Unfold the piece of paper and recognized Ben’s curly handwritten words.

Dear Susan;

It’s a pleasure to know you since our college days. We started as classmates, together with Helen we became best friends, and only with you we blossomed into couples. But wife and husband we ought not to be, because in my heart already occupies someone else. Yesterday Helen told me not to confess to you because she knew you would be devastated. But I can’t carry on living with this any longer, as it would be unfair to both parties. I have to make a decision, and had already made. If you are unafraid, and brace yourself if you want to know the truth, open my first drawer and you would see the person I have an affair with. By then, we would not cross each other again I am afraid. I want to start a new life, perhaps in another country.

I am deeply sorry that our relationship didn’t work out. Hope that you can find another man who truly loves you.

Ben

……………

I sat on the bed motionless. Remorse, regret and loneliness dwell on me. What had I done?

I hear hurried footsteps from behind. ‘Ben?’ Whelm! A powerful blow on my neck knock me off balance. Whelm! The second hit my face, leaving me bloodied and a cruel taste of zinc circulating in my mouth. What vicious person can possess so much hatred on a middle-aged, separated women? ‘Please…’ I plead. And my pleas got answered. The third blow brought me to darkness; an end to all pain and sufferings, fixing all mistakes and despairs in my life that is beyond repair. Thanks, Helen.

Lied next to my battered body is an opened drawer, a photograph of an even happier couple, dated 2006, two years before my engagement picture with Ben, now pales in comparison to this. Ben and another man, smiling like he never did.