The housewife

Till death do us part.

Humorous, isn't it?

Prologue

The memory of the day I walked down the aisle, only to have my liberty

wrestled from my grasp, etched unyielding into my mind. Scores of gazes

drilling into my very soul as I muttered the fatal words "1 do."

My inner screams echoed and I wished to rip my heart out. From that

day on, I was nothing but a ghost of my

former self, a mindless prisoner

trapped in a cage of my uncle's making. I had lost my reason to exist, my

motivation to love, and even the ability to draw breath without feeling

smothered. I fought for my freedom day and night, pouring every ounce of

But the more I struggled, the deeper I sank into despair, until I became

unrecognizable even to myself. Yet here I stand, on the very brink of

regaining what was rightfully mine. Today, at long last, I will reclaim my

life and defy the chains that once bound me.

With each pass of the blade against the steel rod, a metallic melody fills

the air, My gaze fixated on the painted portrait of my husband, his eyes

soulless and empty - a haunting reminder of the life I am living.

Six fucking years of agony, a victim of his abuse. When I begged for

help, they sneered at me with disdain - their laughter pierces like a thousand

daggers. A heavy sigh escapes my lips, a single tear rolling down my cheek

and landing softly on the kitchen counter.

As the timer chimes, my heart races with excitement. The savoury aroma

of the butter and garlic roasted chicken wafts through the air, tantalizing my

senses. With precision, I set down my knife and rod and stride towards the

Oven, clad i

| in my trusty oven mitts. Today is a momentous occasion, a day

filled with celebration.

Just as I remove the sizzling chicken from the oven, I hear the sound of

the front door shutting. A burst of joy surges within me, knowing that he's

finally

willpower into my quest for escape.

home. My heart pounds faster as heavy footsteps approach the kitchen,

and I feel his intense gaze fixated on my back. As I turn around with a

beaming smile, I offer him a warm welcome, "You're just in time for

dinner." With a flick of my wrist, I remove the oven mitts.

His eyes studied me with suspicion, the brown hue growing darker asI

fidgeted in his presence. His hair, brittle and lifeless, resembled the texture

of old straw left to dry in the sun. His eyes were weathered, the wrinkles

around them telling stories of a life filled with hardship. And yet, it was his

distinctive beard that drew my attention, it was thin but unmistakable,

adding character to his rugseu appearance.

As he loosened his a gesture that seemed to signify the end of his

patience, and slipped out of his jacket, my heart raced with both fear and

anger. With a quick glance in my direction, he strode away from the

kitchen, leaving me alone with my thoughts and frustration.

As I tightened my grip on the mitts, the urge to strangle him grew

stronger.

The thought of suffocating him with my bare hands seemed like a

tempting solution to my problems. But taking a deep breath, I resisted the

impulse and steadied myself. My eyes remained fixed on the kitchen

entrance, and with a flick of my wrist, I opened the top drawer.

Inside, lay the small bottle of cyanide salt - a deadly solution to my

troubles. For ages now, I've been gathering seeds from the heart of an apple

- each one packed with deadly cyanide. As little as a few thousand crushed

seeds of this innocuous fruit can silence a person forever. The science

behind it all is rather unsettling - the seeds ruthlessly rob the body of

oxygen, crushing the heart and snatching away thoughts from the brain.

Being a wife isn't easy, especially when you're living in a world where

crime is practically a survival skill. With a cunning smile, I tuck away

the tiny packet of doom in my apron's front pocket as I scurry into the

dining room. On the table, I carefully set out the chicken.

A charming melody drifted through the air, filling the room with the

serene notes of Nocturne No.2. The lighting was dimmed, casting a warm

and welcoming glow over the space. Vanilla candles flickered romantically

in every corner, infusing the air with a sweet, musky perfume. Above the

stunning dining table ga breathtaking crystal chandelier, glinting softy

in the light.

Dishes piled high with delectable creations were artfully arranged on the

table a

salad, freshly baked bread, succulent roasted chicken,

perfectly steamed vegetables, and a glass of rich red wine. I deftly served

up small portions of each dish, carefully crafted from scratch.

Then, with a swift movement, I slipped the cyanide salt from my apron

pocket and sprinkled it onto my husband's plate, meticulously ensuring that

no grain went to waste. Just as I was finishing the task, the sound of

footsteps caught my attention.

Quickly, I shoved the bottle of salt back into my pocket and made my

way to the far end of the table, taking my seat with a practiced grace.

I slipped out of my apron, revealing the sleek black pencil dress that

clung to every curve of my body. I smoothed it down, satisfied with the way

it emphasized my pear shaped figure, and tucked the apron neatly under the

table. With a sense of calm anticipation, I waited for my husband. He

lky robe?

he and a cigar perched on his lips.

sauntered in, clad in a silky

The end glowed with a warm flicker as he took a puff, his eyes fixed on

me with laser-like intensity. Despite his glare, I refused to be intimidated.

With a deft motion, I picked up my knife and fork and delved into my meal.

The flavours burst in my mouth, the perfect balance of savoury and sweet.

As I savoured every delicious bite, I caught my husband's

time, I lifted a wine glass to my lips and let the crimson

id wash

my tongue, meeting his gaze with a cool, collected demeanour. With a

agaovet

This

place the glass on the table and encourage, "Eat, before it gets cold."

Completing his final puff, he extinguishes the cigar, making sure to save

it for later. Cutting his meat with precision, his eyes darted betw

ween my face

and his plate; his movements were slow and calculated. As he raises the

morsel to his mouth, he chews attentively, never losing focus on my

SCrutiny.

He takes a moment to swallow, relishing the flavours. I spread some

butter on my bread and posed the question, "How is it?" Without hesitation,

he replies, "Good." His attention swiftly returns to the tantalizing dish,

devouring the rest of the meal. I snag a few vegetables with my fork,

savouring the flavours in my mouth, and wash it down with the rich and

savoury wine, feeling the liquid warmth flow down my throat.

As the seconds tick by, an eerie stillness fills the air. I raise an eyebrow

in curiosity when I notice him clearing his throat with increasing intensity,

pleasant grin, I

his breaths growing heavy and laboured. "What fuck is in this?" he

demands,

eyes bulging with shock as he stares at me incredulously. Suppressing a

smirk, I nonchalantly slice through the succulent chicken on my plate.

"Perhaps I got a little heavy-handed with the paprika." He snatches up

his glass of wine and takes a swig, but it only seems to worsen his

condition.

His coughs become violent, his weathered hands

he

he struggles to catch his breath, Meanhile cing at his chest as

in quiet satisfaction,

relishing in the intoxicating power of my little experiment. Panic slowly

creeps into his eyes, anxiety clawing its way up from the depths of his

soul.

He glances around frantically, disoriented by his surroundings. His skin

turns a fiery shade of red, thick veins bulging from his temples down to his

neck. With a desperate gasp, he attempts to stand up, only to fall back

into his seat, gasping for air. With a mischievous grin, my lips painted

a blazing red- curl into a sly smirk. "Funny, I forgot to mention I added a

little something extra for my dearest husband," I pause, twirling the crimson

liquid in my glass. "Cyanide salt," the words flow out of me with icy

He stares at me, eyes filled with terror and fury. I return his gaze with a

glint of bitterness in my own eyes.

A shallow gasp escapes his throat, tears streaming down his face as his

body convulses uncontrollably. With a calculated calmness, I take another

bite of my meal, washing it down with a sip of rich wine as I watch the life

drain from my husband's body, inch by inch.

As he takes his final breath, his head falls onto the plate showcasing the

remnants of his meal.

The room is overtaken by a solemn stillness, only interrupted by the

serene whispers of the classical music lingering in the atmosphere.

Unfazed, I continue consuming my food, my eyes transfixed on the sight

of my husband's inanimate form. Upon finishing what's left on my plate, I

elegantly pour myself another glass of wine, raising it in a toast to the

heavens. With an enigmatic smile plastered across my face, I lose myself in

contemplation.

"Happy Anniversary, skurwielu."

apathy.

he air hung thick with the bittersweet scent of mourning as I scanned

the somber faces surrounding me. Viktor, the man we all gathered to bid

farewell to, had been a shadowy figure in life. Yet in death, he was elevated

to saint-like status, as if we mourned the loss of a hero rather than a

wretched soul.

As I observed d the dark parade of mourners, tears streaming down their

faces, my own soul stirred with a twisted sense of satisfaction. There was

something satisfying in watching a man like Viktor finally pay for his sins.

Though no one deserves to die, Viktor's death was different - he had

earned every ounce of the slow, painful end I had inflicted upon him.

I took solace in the fact that, at least for today, the world had one less

monster roaming its shadowS.

On what should have been a somber and dreary day cloaked in sorrow,

the sun was radiant and the sky was a brilliant shade of blue. Nature was

alive with the sweet sound of songbirds and the hum of busy bees, as though

blatantly rejoicing the loss of someone who had caused them so much

distress.

On one side, my uncles sat stoic, their faces as unyielding as stone. No

hint of sadness graced their scowls only a fierce resentment smouldered

in their eyes. They were furious that Viktor was gone.

I sensed their bewilderment at how a man with no organ medical issues

could suffer a fatal heart attack. However, unlike my uncles, I could hardly

conceal my happiness. I sobered myself up for appearances, allowing tears

to spill down my cheeks, masking my true feelings. As a grieving widow,

I'm forced to put on a façade of sadness - one that would fool even

uncles. Despite knowing the truth about Viktor's abusive behaviour they

they

chose to overlook it and leave me to suffer in silence. I was all alone, with

no one to turn to for help.

But I refused to let them see me break. In a moment of suspicion, my

uncle Krzysztof caught my stare, but I remained stoic, unwilling to reveal

my true emotions. The cries of the mourners only added to the already heavy

atmosphere, and I couldn't wait for this funeral to be over - so I could finally

start picking up the pieces of my shattered life.

The priest declared his completion and called for others to deliver their

speeches.

Originally, Viktor's parents were meant to speak, but since they have

passed away and he has no siblings, he only has distant cousins and extended

family to rely on. I was chosen to speak for him as his wife.

As I stood up, I felt the weight of his absence settle on my shoulders like

a leaden cloak. With trembling hands, I smoothed down the sleek silk of my

black dress and made my way to the stage. All eyes were on me, their

expressions ranging from

microphone, my nenes thmpany lo curiosity. I took hold of the

s thrumming

g like a live wire.

Gazing out at the sea of faces, I was struck by a sense of deja vu - it was

the same crowd that had gathered to witness Viktor and I exchange our

vows.

But this time, it wasn't a joyful celebration, but a mournful farewell. My

voice wavered as I began to speak.

"Viktor will be missed," I said, my words catching in my throat as I

struggled to contain my false emotions.

He will in fact not be missed.

"The loss of a spouse is like no other," I say, my voice trailing off into the

silence. The truth of those words wash over me, but I don't feel sadness or

heartache. Instead, I feel freedom. "It changes everything," I continue,

relishing the delicious thrill of it all. "My habits, my confidence, my very

sense of self. Viktor's

s death transformed me."

If they only knew the weight of my words.

"I wish I could see you one more time," I whisper, biding my time.

Because when I do see you again, it will be to witness the beautiful way

you'll wither and die again.

"I." I choke out, my voice quivering and tears beginning to spill down

my cheeks, as though they were the embodiment of the anger r and hatred I

The priest comes to my side, leading me away from the spotlight and

allowing me to take seat next to my uncle. The room is filled with a

suffocating silence, and my heart pounds incessantly against my chest. Butl

refuse to let my facade drop, staring boldly back at those around me.

Finally, as the funeral ceremony continues, it is time to bury the one who

has caused me so much pain. We all file out of the room, quiet and solemn,

following the coffin out into the warm, beautiful outdoors.

As we take each step closer to his final resting place, my heart dances

with glee. The solemn guests form a semicircle around the grave, their heads

hung low and tears shed.

The air is heavy with grief as if the very ground beneath us is mourning.

feel for Viktor.

Black attires adorn family and friends alike, with some clutching flowers

they lay down gently in front of the headstone. The pastor's chime of a

church bell somewhere in the distance is heard, echoing across the graveyard

to Signal he a

I the arrival of six o'clock. Its mounful tune only adds to the gravity

of the situation.

I stand in silent watch as his casket is buried six feet under, a small smile

playing at the corner of my lips. The twisted satisfaction runs through me

like a drug, a euphoria that I never thought was possible. Who knew that

watching someone being buried could bring such blissful joy?

As I stood by my late husband's grave, some individuals approached me

with sympathy in their eyes, offering their condolences and sharing their

own petty woes. They tried to empathize with the agony I was experiencing,

but their words felt hollow and insincere. However, what they failed to

realize was that their actions after offering their condolences spoke volumes.

Walking away, they carelessly passed by the other graves as if they were

meaningless, just another pile of dirt.

For a while, I stood there alone, gazing at the tombstone with a mix of

emotions in my heart. And as much as I wish I could say that I felt grief for

my loss, I cannot deny that the overwhelming feeling of hatred towards my

late husband consumed me. I despise him with every fiber of my being for

the pain and destruction he had caused in my life. Perhaps, the only solace I

can find at this moment is wishing the same suffering on those who possess

the same rotten spirit and mindset as Viktor.

My entire existence has been a futile attempt to appease men like him,

inflicted with a twisted and unyielding ailment. I discarded my own identity,

submitted my soul, and beseeched for their approval.

They never apologized for hurting me. He never apologized for hurting

me, but I apologized to them dozens of times for being angry about it.

I firmly believe that taking your life was a necessity, Viktor. I simply

couldn't imagine surviving another year of your

assault, hidden

from the sight of my own kin, How much more heartbreak could euetale

five, ten, twenty more years of constant soul-shattering? The weariness of it

had become too much to bear.

I had to do it - I had to save myself.

After what you've done to me.

You deserve to burn in eternal hell.