A Life Sentence
Thirty years ago, I walked into jail with a life sentence for murder–I killed my husband and his lover. With rifle in hand, I shot through the blankets they slept below. A spatter of blood shot like juice exploded by their pillows and the white cotton dyed into dark maroon. The lumps that carried their names settled; they became just limp flesh and brittle hair. Quickly, I put the rifle back. When nobody arrested me, I skipped around the house until I realized how silly I looked. Finally, I got in my BMW and drove to my friend’s house. She lived in the hilly part of town that looked down upon the lake; my husband and I lived by the water. We shared similar mortgages; we never complained. Our houses impressed friends and enemies alike.
Looking back on Henry, I could barely recall his murder at all. I could just remember we’d take trips to Las Vegas; he’d impress everyone (especially me) with large bets he couldn’t afford. “We only live once,” he told me. “Nobody knows when God will punch the ticket.” I didn’t think I’d punch his ticket, not God. People and God move in mysterious ways. Still, I wouldn’t have considered another woman in our bed. He never dealt with that insult. Of that, I learned not to regret, slowly yet eventually.
Anyhow, I stood in the cell and looked at the body in the bunk. A shapely woman of sixty lay with black hair and a pudgy nose visible above the ratty blanket. She wore an undershirt below her jumpsuit. Her breasts didn’t heave yet she slept. Somehow, she slept peacefully. I shook my head slowly, tightly. With her face lined by age and stress, she still looked lovely in ways I rarely found in jail. Without any sexual attraction, I liked her looks, as statuesque as they were.
Uncontrollably, I walked towards her, looking at her nose and thick eyelashes. They looked odd for someone her age. Downwardly, I kissed her cheek, and put a little smooch of respect and, somehow, love onto her lips. Only a slight exhale came from her little mouth, like the puff off an empty Zippo. A chill ran through me; nobody of such beauty should land in jail. When the door buzzed, I walked into the upper level of the dayroom.
Walking down the steel stairway, I looked at the TV. A flicker accompanied the static–the unit would always live. The bulbs brightened yet still appeared dull. Only, the lights burned brilliantly, suddenly; the walls burst into flames as crematoriums do. Strangely, the roof billowed into black smoke. Almost endlessly, the stairway continued. Squirming from anxiety, I walked slower and slower. My strides became hesitant, until finally, I dropped off the final rail and fell through a celestial manhole. As I tried to control my twirls, I plummeted quickly, helplessly. Somehow, my head drooped around my feet, my body like a pretzel, until finally, I landed on rock.
On the bottom, my husband touched my hand. With eyes wide, I heard him say, “I don’t love you anymore. And you won’t love anybody, either, after your time here.” As he stated, I didn’t. After what felt like eternity, I forgot about love. Occasionally, I looked at my husband. Whips pelted his body continually, as they did mine. I didn’t love him anymore. Worse, I didn’t love myself anymore. And I couldn’t blame anyone.
