No!

“No!”

It was his wife’s favorite word; and the reason he was planning to kill her.

They had had a good twenty years together. But she had hit The Change pretty hard. More precisely, The Change had hit her like a train.

Now, ten years later, the train was named Irene, and was hitting him every time she opened her mouth: A tiny, fat warthog of a train with too much makeup, a preference for glitter and a voice like metal on metal, grinding loudly on its way into “Station NO!”.

“No!” had long ago replaced “yes” in her lexicon to him; “love” had been abandoned years before.

There was no sex and hadn’t been since God knows. To be honest, he didn’t miss it; he was getting old, too, and would rather spend his fleeting time with a good meal and a ballgame on the idiot box. That was his idea of heaven.

He often came close to making it happen. It would be enjoyable for a while; a secret slice of pleasure. Then she’d come stomping into the room, announce “No!”, snatch a good portion of his food and switch the channel to a shopping network. She liked sparkly shoes, and was always hunting for more.

A real man would have put his foot down, he told himself. A real man would have been the master of his house. But deep down he was too compliant, too lazy; he didn’t want the fight; he didn’t want to make the effort. A real man? He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he knew it wasn’t him.

He worked in Customer Service at a local department store, taking complaints all day long and learning to be passive and agreeable because “The Customer Is ALWAYS Right”. He was ashamed of himself for selling his manhood so cheap; a paycheck, health insurance, and two weeks off each year sitting home in the dark, avoiding the warthog and her favorite word.

He tried his best to tame the beastly “No!”.

“Honey,” he’d say, trying his best to be inoffensive, “wouldn’t it be fun to take a holiday drive down the coast like we used to?”

“No!”

“Honey, they’re putting on a production of ’Our Town’ at the local theatre, should I order tickets?”

“No!”

“There’s a new fondue place everyone’s talking about. We should give it try.”

A slight pause because it was food related, then, “No!”.

The idea to kill her was slow to develop. At first it was just an idle daydream; something to put a smile on his face. But as the “No’s” accumulated, the thought of murder became more concrete and to his mind, rational; like it was the only viable option.

But how? He thought about that for a while.

Days passed. Weeks. Then months. He was a slow thinker.

But the “No’s!” never stopped. They kept piling up, like garbage, dirty dishes, and unworn sparkly shoes. There were so many they filled every space of his mind. The word was only two letters, but it was impossible to escape.

“No!”

“No!”

“No!”

Then came Halloween.

Like most days lately, he was hiding out in the garden shed because she had been on a tear of constant “No’s” ranging from his choice of socks to his loud breathing to his shadow. His shadow!

She had been reading a fashion magazine in the dim evening light, when he walked into the room, blocking the window.

“No!” she said, turning to him with her pinched fat face in anger and pointing to the other side of the room.

She had actually complained about his shadow!

For the first time in a long while, he felt a rage and anger rise up and burn his mind in a hot blinding fury.

Later, still raging in the garden shed, banging around doing nothing except lashing out at inanimate objects and existing somewhere other than with her, he stepped on something out of place. Looking down he saw his camp hatchet had slipped from behind some maple planks where it had been stored and forgotten.

It lay there at his feet. By some trick of the fading daylight it flashed a muted dull, electric blue, like the flicker of a dying torch.

He picked up the old hatchet and flashed a grim smile.

Finding a hand file, he worked the edge for thirty minutes until it gleamed bright hungry silver.

Now. Tonight.

He pulled the string hanging down in front of his face and the shed light clicked off. He stood there in the dark, silent, looking through the dingy shed window at the house, waiting for… something.

She walked past the kitchen window. The light went out in the kitchen. A light came on in the living room. Then the blue light of the television came on and flickered on the walls. She was in her well-worn TV recliner where she would be for the next couple hours.

He moved silently out of the shed. The door creaked ever so slightly as he closed it, causing him a moment of panic.

Nothing.

Moving to the house, he carefully and very slowly opened the back door to the kitchen. It opened without noise. He went in.

Keeping silent, he slowly moved through the kitchen to the living room. Her back was to him, her recliner chair facing the television. He could see her head sticking up above the chair, silhouetted by the television’s blue light. The host was busy asking participants for questions to the answers in various categories. He noted with surprise one of the categories was “Murder”.

He felt an electric tingle in his arm. He looked down. The weapon seemed to glow a bright thirsty blue. He told himself it was just the reflection from the television.

He stood behind the chair. A moment passed.

The weapon he held was now raised above his head. He had no memory of doing so. The hatchet flickered hungrily, alive with a will of its own.

A voice in his head –a voice he didn't recognize– ordered, “Do it!”

And just before he acceded to that new voice, an old memory flickered dimly.

His mind called out, “Wait!”

The memory came into view. Irene and him, young and in love, holding hands while walking in the sun. Laughing. She was thin and beautiful in the afternoon light. She was young, full of life and promise. He thought of her face close to his just before she kissed him; she was smiling and he remembered feeling happy and deeply in love.

The memory hit him so hard, he lost his nerve.

His eyes got misty. He sniffed and began to lower the hatchet.

Hearing the sound behind her, Irene tipped her head back and saw him holding the gleaming hatchet above her head.

Terrified, she cried out in fear and panic the only word guaranteed to change his mind…

© 2024 Steve Merryman