Wicked Women

by Gaie Sebold

  There was still a lot to do. The stain in the hallway would have to be attended to; scarlet rivulets were already making a break for the Persian rug in the living room and that simply would not do. Then there were the walls. Kitty sighed. She hadn’t meant to make such a mess, but needs must when the devil drives. It had been so satisfying. Closing her eyes, she remembered another pair, wide with terror, lips moving to make the incessant music of pleas for mercy, pale skin, trembling hands. It was all a memory now, but it had been a luxury like no other. Better than sex, that was for sure. The swift pinch of a blade point against, into, quivering flesh, the promise of something more, something deeper, more revealing. Kitty opened her eyes. She was losing herself again and there were chores to be done.

  Heading for the utility room at the back of the kitchen, she ticked off what she would need in her mind; bucket, mop, scrubbing brush, bleach…

  Ensure the children are quiet, that they have clean hands and faces and their hair is combed. Their father does not want to be greeted by filthy unkempt little terrors.

  The children. She’d forgotten all about them. Honestly, she’d forget her head if it wasn’t screwed on. That’s what her Mother used to tell her, over and over, each time punctuated with a hearty thwack of the paddle against the back of her legs. Merciless, but she had learned the lesson well. All the lessons. Each one more cruel, more calculated to demolish than the last. Whining about it was not going to get her chores done any quicker, however, and she had forgotten, hadn’t she? Forgotten like the simpleton she was. Well, time to remedy that.

  ‘Children! I’m coming. I hope you’ve washed your hands and faces.’

  Take one last look around to make sure the house is spick-and-span. Gather up any clutter and run a duster over the tables, sideboards, windowsills et cetera. Your husband should feel as though he is returning to a haven, not a war zone.

  That was the children attended to. Honestly, those boys were just like their father. Always running her to the edge of patience, misbehaving with that endearing glint of roguishness in their eyes: irritating, irritating little shits. She had to teach them a lesson, just as her mother had taught her. With any lesson, however, there was often a resultant mess and, darn it all, she was already behind schedule. She was finding it hard to think again; things kept reshuffling in her mind like a dodgy spine on a potholed road. If she didn’t start getting it together, didn’t regain order over everything, smooth it all out, she was soon going to… The sound of the stock boiling over snapped her out of it. Now she really was in a fix.

  Kitty sprinted for the hob, grabbing for the knob and yelped as the hot overspill splashed and spat at her skin. She turned the temperature down and grabbed a tea towel, heaving the large pot onto a dormant burner. Bloody woman. She was still more trouble than she was worth. Well, as long as she was tasty, that’s all that mattered now.

  Before your man arrives home, take a few minutes to refresh your make up, fix your hair, and change your clothes if need be. Ensure you are nice and relaxed when he comes through the door. Be ready to give him a lift with a smile as you greet him.

  It was time for the jacket. She’d worked on it all afternoon when she should have been cleaning. The old Singer was the only thing she’d inherited from her mother - the only thing other than the psychosis and the piquerism - and was still in perfect working order. She took good care of it, just as mother had beaten into her. It still hemmed seams like a dream, creating a beautiful jacket for her out of… That old saying “silk purse out of a pig’s ear” might be deemed appropriate. Kitty chuckled. That woman, - the pigwhorebitch - had learned the hard way. Learned that she, Kitty Darling, was not someone to be messed with, that her family unit was not something anyone else would be allowed to endanger. Not anyone. Least of all some filthy, blowjobbing disease trap…

  Kitty drew in a long breath. Her hands were shaking. The empty pill strips laughed at her from beside the sink, the light twinkling mockingly on the metallic material; mocking her. She hated to be mocked. Hated it. Hatedithatedithatedit…

  The rage.

  A moment of panic flashed through her, but even as she scrabbled to stop it, she felt it bubble over at last.

  It shot through her veins, zinging up into her brain like a champion pinball, making it throb. She raked her hands across her face, trying to scrape it out. Red lines scored her skin, but she couldn’t stop, not until it was gone. Still it pulsed in her head, her thoughts scattering.

  The sound of a key in the front door lock punched through her mania. She’d been anticipating it for hours and now that it had come, she wasn’t ready. Goddammit, why did nothing ever work out right? Something always went wrong, something out of her control, something infuri-fucking-ating. Fury screeched through her, more potent than ever, those redundant pill packets not mocking her anymore. She felt the terror of the world around her as she stopped making a mess of her face. She felt it tremble at what she was becoming, had become.

  As the key turned in the lock, seconds became minutes, became hours. Time elasticised with Kitty as she felt the change finally come over her, punching away the Kitty she’d tried so hard to be, so yearned to be. She’d felt its touch before but never its full force. She’d fought it for so long but every cell, every atom, was infused with red-hot anger, righteous anger. How dare he? How dare he do this to her? How dare he…

  ‘Darling? What on earth happened? Where…’

  Although the fury governed her now, she knew what she had to do. There was a kind of calm in the eye of its storm. Kitty stepped from the shadows, the cast iron pan in her hand.

  ‘Welcome home, darling.’

  ‘What the hell…?’

  The sound of human skull crunching beneath cast iron echoed around the hallway and the man fell with a splash into the scarlet lake at his feet. Kitty looked down at her shoes and wondered how she was ever going to get the stains out.

  Greet him with his favourite drink and make sure that he is comfortable. If he wants to take a nap before dinner, make sure his pillow is plumped and offer to remove his shoes. It is your job to ensure he is relaxed and can unwind unimpeded from his day.

  Vodka, rocks. Just how he liked it. Kitty was sure he’d be awake by now. She’d had to help him to bed, of course. Silly man had practically worked himself into a stupor. The bedside lamp cast a soft glow across the supine form of the man on the bed and as she stood in the doorway Kitty sighed at the perfection of his beloved face… except for the blood trickling from the wound just above his hairline. Why did she always have to focus on the details when they weren’t important? She’d drive herself mad with them one day. Now was not the time, she needed to stay calm.

  ‘Are you awake, darling?’ She kept her voice low, soothing, as she crossed the room to sit on the bed beside him. When he didn’t reply, she raised it slightly but made sure not to overdo it, just.

  ‘Kit-Kitty?’ His voice was groggy, hoarse. He didn’t sound like himself at all. She’d already said it; the poor dear had been working too hard. Well now, wasn’t it her job to make sure he relaxed? And wouldn’t she do just that, even if it killed him?

  ‘Of course it’s Kitty, darling. I’ve brought your drink.’

  ‘Untie me, Kitty. Please.’ The panic in his plea was like a slap in the face. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all. The heat of the fury prickled at the base of her skull, rolled in the pit of her stomach. No. She wouldn’t let it take over again. She had a plan and if you could say one thing about Kitty Darling it was that she stuck to her plans. In the end.

  Do not subject him to complaints and problems. He has most likely had a hard day and anything you have to say will probably be inconsequential in comparison. Be considerate and attentive, let him talk to you and not the other way around. However, your husband is not clairvoyant. If you want something from him, ask for it, but make sure you keep your tone positive and never accusatory. Whatever you do, never let anger take over.

  It was tricky, st
aying calm, but Kitty had had a lot of practice. Once upon a time, she had constantly been at the mercy of the fury - the cold white rooms, the hypodermics, the placating smiles and ‘hush nows’ of Dr Tish as he felt her up beneath her gown - but she had learned to keep it in its place. She had.

  Deep breaths. The mindfulness book had said to go back into her breathing if she was having trouble focusing - Dr Tish had said the same thing, but for something quite different. She thought it was fair to say she was having some trouble focusing.

  Deep breath in, two three four, deep breath out, two three four, and repeat.

  Better.

  Now. The jacket.

  Luckily the other woman - that bitchwhoreskank - was quite a bit bigger than Kitty, so she’d been able to nip and tuck the garment to suit her frame, but it had still been a bugger to get into. Kitty looked at herself in the mirror. She admired her handiwork for a moment, allowing herself just a touch of pride. She’d always been good with her hands. Even when mother had broken every one of her fingers after she’d stolen an apple from the bowl that sat on the kitchen table in the farmhouse they’d lived in - she’d not eaten for days, days, she’d been so young, so hungry, so frightened, always so frightened - they had healed well and only ached when the cold weather came. There she was again, going all goopy at herself. It was time for dinner. She didn’t want those steaks overcooking now, did she?

  The jacket took a bit of getting used to but, as she made her way back into the kitchen, she was glad she’d made the effort. The look on his face when he saw her was priceless. He clearly hadn’t failed to notice it, to realise what it was made from. Her talent as a seamstress was probably one of the reasons he’d married her.

  He was sat at the head of the table, just as he should be, and the two boys were pinned to their chairs. It had taken her a bloody age, but pinned they were. Their bowing heads were the only oversight she’d made, making the tableau a little less than she had hoped for, but she had to suck it up for now. Hopefully they would come round before their dinner got cold.

  Ensure the cutlery and glassware are sparkling clean. Your napkin always goes in your lap. Never lick your fingers and never ask who you’re eating.

  The table was set. The tablecloth was gingham. Perfect red and white check. Kitty smoothed the cloth across the table before taking a step back to admire her work. It was perfect, of course. Perfect. How she liked perfect. She felt much better now things were going according to plan again. Calmer. Clearer. Happy.

  As Kitty looked around at her family, she wondered if she’d ever felt so at peace before. There might only be four of them, but they were a perfect family. One day, maybe, they’d have a little girl. She’d always wanted a girl.

  ‘Let’s eat.’ Picking up her knife and fork, Kitty began digging into the meal in front of her, her left elbow sticking occasionally in the jacket’s sleeve. She’d have to take another look at the stitching after dinner. Steak with roasted potatoes, pumpkin, courgette and onions with the delicious gravy she’d made from the stock on the stove. It smelled divine. Closing her eyes, she savoured the meat as she chewed. The meat was succulent and tasty; its juices sliding decadently down her throat. It was cooked to perfection. She had surpassed herself this…

  No one else was eating.

  ‘Your food will get cold.’ Neither of the children replied, they sat in silence, refusing to pick up their knives and forks. Well, if they didn’t eat what she put in front of them they would go without. He was no better. Sitting opposite her, staring at her, the expression on his face one of... no, this was intolerable. She would fix this.

  Scraping her chair back, Kitty stood up and walked around the table. She picked up his knife and fork and cut a large piece of meat for him. Blowing on it gently, she raised it to his mouth. He flinched away, keeping it firmly shut. Kitty pushed it against his - bastard, ingrate - closed lips a second time. And a third. Then stabbed him in the mouth with the fork when he still refused to permit her entry. He yelled in surprise and pain but the fork sticking out of his face muffled the sound. Blood trickled from the wound she’d made and Kitty fought the urge to lick his face. That sort of thing was for the bedroom, not the dining table.

  ‘Now look what you made me do. Eat up or I’ll find another way to get it all inside you.’ Kitty pulled the fork back out, ignoring his whimpering, and waited. Slowly, he opened his mouth and, smiling, Kitty popped the fork between his lips. ‘Chew.’ He was clumsy but obedient. She liked that. She liked it a lot, but she couldn’t stand there feeding him like a baby - snivelling baby, snot running out of his nose. He might be her husband but she needed (oh how she needed) to eat too. Decision made, she swiftly, with the occasional sticking of her left elbow, cut up his dinner into manageable pieces and used the steak knife to slice through the gaffa tape binding him to his chair on one side. Just one hand. She popped the knife into the pocket of her apron - she didn’t want any accidents - and put the fork into the hand she had freed, wrapping his stiff fingers around the handle. Returning to her seat, enjoying the unusual meaty shuck of the jacket’s fabric as she sat, she was pleased to see him digging - picking - at his vegetables.

  Never overdo it on the wine. A glass or two is acceptable but you should always keep in mind that no man likes a drunk Wendy for a wife. There is also the washing up to consider. You’re not going to get that done when you’re three sheets to the wind. Remember, first and foremost, a good wife’s responsibility is to keep her home spick-and-span.

  Maybe working too hard was affecting his appetite - or maybe he ate before he came home, with his friends or perhaps another woman, maybe he hates your cooking, maybe he knows. Kitty decided to go easy on him. She could be magnanimous; the apple might not fall far from the tree, but it did fall and she was not her mother. Picking up his plate, she took it to the sink and began scraping the leftovers into the little tub she kept for…

  Sharp pain, intense, sudden, pierced the junction of her neck and shoulder. The sweet spot. Kitty dropped the plate onto the counter, the fork skittering after it in a shower of leftovers. She scrabbled at her back, but he stabbed her again before she could stop him. His reflection in the darkened window - she should have seen him, heard him, stupid stupid - above the sink was grim, determined. The children. She’d forgotten - treacherous little shits - about their plates, their cutlery. Without thinking, she thrust her head backwards, right into his perfect, double-crossing face. The crunch of his nose breaking under her skull fired the fury through her even better than the stab of the fork in her neck. She whirled around, one hand grabbing for the carving knife she’d left on the draining board earlier. She jabbed at him, piercing his chest with a smattering of shallow puncture wounds. He was strong though, despite the head injury, despite the fear - or because of it - and, as her damned left elbow caught again, he punched her hard in the stomach, doubling her over, her hand opening reflexively and dropping the knife. Gasping for breath, but not outdone, Kitty bared her teeth and drove them into his thigh, feeling her jaw click hard as she bit down. He screamed so loudly it hurt her ears and then he punched her again, this time in the back. Kitty fell to her knees but she was far from finished. She ground her fingers into the soft flesh at the side of his knee, pinching hard - she was glad she’d cut the bitches hands off now - watching as his leg buckled beneath him. When his face came into view, she head-butted him again, the crimson bloom of his blood splashing across her face. She licked her lips as he fell backwards, the salty taste almost as good as her gravy. Maybe it was for the kitchen, after all.

  ‘Did you enjoy her, you cheating fuck?’ She snarled at him, not waiting for an answer. ‘Was she tasty? Everything you ever wanted?’ He groaned in pain and confusion, on his back - just how the whore liked him - his hands flailing defensively, helplessly. ‘I made sure to add a lot of pepper to her tasteless backside. Ha!’ Even in his stupor, she could see he heard her, his bloody face clenching helplessly, his eyes wide with shock, as though this one depravity was th
e final straw, the snap of his sanity. His kids unconscious - dead, Kitty, dead - and pinned to a table, his whore’s skin draped over her, they were nothing compared to eating human flesh. ‘Delicious, wasn’t she?’ She laughed then, laughed so hard she thought she might never stop. When he punched her in the face, she stopped. She sat down on her bottom with an ‘oof’ and stared at him. She’d thought she’d broken him, but there he was, scrabbling to his feet and heading for the front door. Stars danced around her head like a sauce panned cartoon character. She blinked several times. Shaking her head was not an option just yet.

  ‘Bitch!’ He’d found her little trick then. Did he think she was stupid? Of course she’d locked the door. Thrown the key away. Banged in some nails. No one was getting out. No one. Clinging to the kitchen cabinet, she hoisted herself unsteadily to her feet. She pulled the cleaver from where it sat on its magnetic strip above the sink and followed him. He was trying for the windows, of course. Standing on one of her beautiful cream sofas with his feet all bloody from the lake on the hallway floor. He’d ruined her plans by arriving home early so she couldn’t finish her tidying up and now he was ruining her sofa with his selfish sticky feet. Sticky sticky feet. Oh, he was going to get a lesson, all right, and it was going to be more than sticky.

  A shriek tore from her throat as she sprinted at him, cleaver waving in her hand above her head, ready to chop into him wherever she could. He slipped just before she got to him, his sticky - sticky sticky - feet offending her yet again. The cleaver sank into her beautiful cream sofa and she had to pull it out with both hands. He was away from her by then, running for the back door. Kitty was, not for the first time, over his disobedience. Right. Over. It. She chased after him, catching him as he realised that door was locked too. She sank the cleaver into his shoulder with a battle cry that shook the walls. He tried to shake her off, but she let go of the heavy knife and climbed onto his back, clawing at him, sinking her teeth into his flesh wherever she could. He thrashed around, trying to dislodge her, but Kitty was tenacious, Kitty was strong, and Kitty was not giving up. She kept her hold on him despite that tricky left elbow even as he backed into the kitchen wall, wrapped her legs around him and squeezed hard.