E Ellis Allen (girlonstilts.com)

His emasculation happened, not as a flood, but as a drip in a metal pan, building, building, building, until it crushed him. Had he been swayed to either love his wife more or to hate her less, they both may have come out unscathed.

Linus Beets Jr. was broken. Once considered the next great American Author, his debut novel, Promises, sold two million copies within the first year. Now he was nothing. His limelight dwindled, and he had forgotten how to write. At first, he blamed luck, then perfection, and then his wife, Fancy.

He had felt the pangs of hunger for a while, though he didn’t know what they meant. Linus wasn’t hungry in the traditional sense–not starving–but something else altogether. It was a craving that turned and twisted his life, looking for an escape. The hunger made him numb in his hands, his mind, and his heart, so numb he even heard the buzz of nothingness in his ears.

He was certain, once satisfied, the pain would end, like a snake digesting its prey. The snake isn’t hungry once it eats the rabbit. Until Linus knew what the hunger was exactly, he settled into a tedious life made up of menial tasks bookended by waking in the morning and going to bed at night, and this he blamed on Fancy.

Fancy Bernard-Wexler Beets was born better than Linus. She was raised in wealth and connection and educated at the best schools. Fancy was exquisite, reinforced through years of hair appointments, manicures, gym memberships, and facials.

On a ski trip in Aspen, Fancy broke her tibia. Surgery followed in which a long metal rod was inserted in the front of her knee, down the bone marrow, and set with three screws, one at the top and two at the bottom, the thought of which turned his stomach. After, Linus became her nurse, her captive, her slave.

“Linus! My leg hurts!” Fancy whined. “Get in here, hurry!”

She was awake. She was awake and in pain, though not enough to silence her. Every three hours, she wailed and ordered him to deaden her ache. Poor, delicate Fancy couldn’t swallow her Percocet whole–even though it was gelatin coated.

“Help me, Linus.”

So he did. No one told him it was dangerous to undo the painkiller capsule, although it may not have made a difference if they had. A wistful fog overcame Linus while he was in the kitchen pulling apart Fancy’s pill. A tall, slender glass was filled with Diet Pepsi, and Seinfeld reruns blared from the television in the next room.

To escape both his reality and his spouse, Linus lost himself in daydream. A gray haze wrapped around him like a cocoon. Mostly, he dreamed of how to murder Fancy–choking was a favorite, but a shove off a cliff worked, too. He imagined once or twice puncturing her body full of bullet holes but banished the idea because he was a pacifist and didn’t own a gun.

In his dream, Linus climbed the stairs and entered her bedroom. Fancy was asleep. He opened her curtains, exposing the full white moon. Moonlight absorbed into her skin, shading it ghostly blue. The street was empty and dark, save for a few porch lights and lost traffic in the distance.

From his sleeve, Linus pulled a stretch of metal wire the width of fishing string. He moved to her bedside. He threaded the wire underneath her neck and wound it around twice before doing the same to each of his gloved hands. He pulled.

As the ligature tightened, Fancy’s eyes fluttered open.

“How’s this for not buying you jewelry? How ‘bout a necklace?” he’d scream. “How’s the fit, sweetheart? Comfortable?”

Her mouth gulped for air. He tightened the wire more. Her hands grasped at his. Her eyes went wide, pleading for him to stop. He continued to pull the cord, tighter, tighter, tighter, until her head popped off…. He’d always awoken before there was blood. Blood made him queasy.

In a trance, Linus dismantled a Percocet and dropped the powdery contents into bubbling Diet Pepsi. He walked upstairs and handed the glass over. Fancy downed the drink. Linus left and went back to watching TV.

Around hour three, he checked on Fancy. The bell he’d given her at the hospital, a gag gift that backfired, hadn’t rung for over an hour, maybe more. He opened the door of the master bedroom, her room now, not his. Her wounded leg was propped up on the pillows they once shared. Her cell phone lay next to her head, and snores wedged her mouth open.

The next hour Linus returned. The snoring had stopped, and he studied her for the up-and-down motion of her breath moving in and out. It was hard to tell if it was.

He sensed rather than remembered what he had done. How many pills had he put in Fancy’s drink? One? Two? Seven? Eight? He didn’t know.

Linus raced to the kitchen. He searched the garbage can. In the kitchen sink, elbow deep, he rooted around in the damp, dank disposal for medicine shells without luck. The orange plastic prescription container was open on the counter. Linus counted the remaining pills. Two were missing.

Taking two stairs at a time, Linus sprinted back to check her pulse, it was faint and slow, but it was there. He tried rousing her, lifting her shoulders off the bed, and shaking her. Nothing. He called her name and wiped her face with cold water. No response.

Horror settled on him while he sat at the top of the stairs; it penetrated his brain, spliced open the void and shined a light on the possibility of what he’d done. Linus had overdosed his wife.

What should he do? Was she dying? Should he call an ambulance? The police? Her doctor? Should he perform CPR? Did he know CPR?

From the bedroom, Fancy stirred and groaned. He dashed to her. Her eyes quivered open, and she smiled at him. He grabbed her hand.

“You’re awake! I’m sorry! I accidentally gave you too many pills–“

“You’ve got to get out of here, Barry.” Her words slipped and rolled around her tongue.

“No, Fancy, it’s me, Linus.” He held her hand; her palm rested on his chest, his heart.

“I’m serious, Barry. Linus will kill us if he finds us together.”

Barry? Barry Wilcox, her personal trainer?

“Fancy?” Linus was unnerved but assumed it was her pills talking, not his wife. “It’s me, Linus.”

“Stop it, Barry!” Fancy’s lip stuck out.

“Okay?” he said. She was confused and upset, rightfully so. After all, he had almost killed her. The least he could do was indulge her.

“Here, don’t get upset. You’re right. I’m Barry.” As he spoke, a thread of thought wove its way to the front of his mind. “Remind me, are we sleeping together, Fancy?”

“Of course. You know that!” she giggled. “Remember last Tuesday? You ran out the back as Linus was pulling in the garage?”

He did remember a Tuesday, several Tuesdays ago, before the ski trip Fancy took with friends, when he had come up the driveway, parked the car, and entered the house. The back door was open, and their cat, Frisk, a chocolate Persian kitten, was gone. After arguing, Linus took the blame for not checking the door before he left the house that morning. He still hadn’t found Frisk.

Linus’s stomach dropped. The taste of pennies filled his mouth. The more he blinked, the more black dots swirled in front of him. He had to escape. He stumbled out of their old bedroom and down the hallway to his new room, the spare. The comfort of the gray haze coma he usually sought had evaporated.

Fancy and Barry Wilcox were having an affair? Barry–Barry rhymed with fairy. Wilcox–as in a willing cock, only plural—-what a fitting name. Still, Barry? The stereotypical meathead, with his white toothy grin, waves of blonde hair, muscled arms, and legs resembling braided bread. The Barry Wilcox who didn’t seem to own anything but tank tops and shorts?

Linus punched the wall, leaving an indent and cracked ivory paint in a circle. He didn’t feel the weakness of pain; he felt the strength of hatred.  He hated Fancy then, really, and truly despised her. Had he a gun, he would have used it.  Instead, he rifled through the small desk in the corner of the room, yanking out drawers and slamming them closed. Rage led him to an old legal pad, yellow and water stained in the bottom drawer, along with a blue pen. He took out the pair and climbed on his bed. He dwarfed the twin-sized bed, and his feet hung over the sides or off the end. Linus sat against the headboard and began to write; angrily, fervently, hungrily.

Early the next morning, before the sun cracked open the earth, Linus awoke with a jolt. The yellow notepad dropped from his cheek and flopped to the floor. Over forty pages of fiction covered the pad. For the first time in years, he had started a story, and as he transferred his words to his laptop, he noticed he didn’t feel hungry.

When Barry Wilcox texted his well wishes to Fancy, this after two bouquets of daisies and then balloons, Linus used her phone and broke up with him. Barry protested. He said he would confront Linus, tell him Fancy didn’t love him anymore and ask for a divorce on her behalf.  It was galling. Why would Fancy prefer a nobody to Linus Beets, Jr., the novelist?

Linus responded, posing as Fancy, and said she and Linus had reconciled. She asked Barry to leave her alone so she could make her marriage work. Still, Barry refused, which set in motion the second plan.

Because the breakup had been unexpected, Linus had already mixed two Xanax and Percocet and fed them to Fancy through a straw. He had no time to revive her before Barry came. Her unconscious, barely breathing state, however, could be used to his advantage.

At the top of the driveway, gripping the steering wheel, Linus waited. Fancy was passed out in the passenger seat. The house lights were off, as were the car headlights, but the engine was idling. He assumed Barry wouldn’t park in front of the house but down the hill. He expected that Barry would then jog–because everywhere the sex-sicle went, he was jogging–up to the house.

Then, Linus would mow Barry down. He may have to roll over the man once or twice just to make sure. Linus would leave the car on top of him, move Fancy into the driver’s seat and then go to bed.

Eventually, someone would notice the car flattening a dead man, and Fancy passed out at the steering wheel. The neighbors would call the police, who would break the news to Linus as they dragged Fancy away in handcuffs. It was the perfect plan–two birds with one BMW.

Backlit by the streetlight, a figure emerged in the rearview mirror, walking up the drive with their head bent over his phone. Linus threw the car in reverse. He sped down the driveway, tires screaming against the endless rows of square pavers. Linus’s heart boomed in his chest as he careened toward his target.

Less than a foot away from taking Barry out, the car screeched to a halt. Linus had forgotten about a braking system that automatically activated and would not disengage. It wasn’t fair.

“Linus? What’s going on?” Barry asked in between gum chomps. He leaned inside the car and saw Fancy in the passenger seat.

“I’m taking Fancy to the emergency room,” Linus lied. “Something’s wrong with her.” He hadn’t anticipated Barry taking this as an invitation to join them.

As the two men sat in the waiting room at Amberhurst Hospital, Fancy had her stomach pumped, and Barry broke down. He confessed to the affair and then blamed himself for her apparent attempted suicide.

“She tried to break it off with me,” Barry bawled. “But I wouldn’t let her.”

Barry said he was sorry and promised to leave Linus and Fancy alone. Linus shook the man’s hand and forgave him. He even gave the idiot cab fare. So it wasn’t exactly two birds, but one, and Linus took it.

The yellow page in front of Linus lay dormant, and he couldn’t get his pen to write. He struggled to track the path the story was going, only to find himself lost in the fiction-telling woods with both his hands and his mind frozen.

From his back pocket, his cell phone buzzed. Penelope Port, his agent, was calling. Before she could fire him, Linus told her about his newest idea and that he’d written one hundred pages so far–a lie, it had only been fifty-six–and he would send her the first forty. She was thrilled.

Down the hallway came the sound of a ringing bell. Fancy rang and rang and rang until it deflated any creative thought in his head. Linus straightened and plastered a smile on his face.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he asked, entering her bedroom. Fancy turned and glared at him.

“When did you start calling me sweetheart?”

“Does it matter? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Barry. We were supposed to meet for physical therapy today but when I texted to confirm he told me he wasn’t my trainer anymore. He said he’d given me to someone else.”

“What?” Linus pretended to care.

“It must’ve been those painkillers! I must’ve texted him last week and made him mad, but I can’t find those messages.”

She sank against the pillows lining the headboard, and her bottom lip stuck out. Fancy barely remembered having her stomach pumped, which led to the quick removal of all Percocet pills and no more refills per Doctor Nelson’s orders.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Linus said. “I deleted those messages.”

“Why?”

“They would’ve traumatized you again.” He inched next to Fancy and stroked her hair. “We shouldn’t talk about this right now. We just adjusted your medication–“

“I’m not going to kill myself,” she said. Her voice was steady. “Tell me.”

“Fine. You must’ve gotten the two of us mixed up because you sent Berry your suicide note. You said you loved me but couldn’t keep living a lie.”

Fancy’s eyes widened. He could see all the way around each of her irises. Her breath caught in her chest. It was delicious.

“I’m sorry, this is too much. I shouldn’t have reminded you. Do you still want me to move back in here?”

“Move back? You mean in this room?”

“I know. I wasn’t ready to reconcile before, but I am now if you still want me.”

“Reconcile?”

“Wait, that is the lie you were talking about, right? The fact that we weren’t living as husband and wife anymore?”

She stared at the wall in front of her. Her color drained past her neck, and her lips parted. Fancy turned, considered Linus, then nodded slightly.

“So it’s settled?” Linus asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Good!” Linus hurried around the bed and scooped her up as if carrying his bride across the threshold. He kissed her forehead and moved her to the bathroom to begin the process of cleaning and redressing her wounds.

Fancy smiled at Linus; it was small and almost indiscernible, but it was genuine, and it was for him. Perhaps their marriage was salvageable after all.

Life had resumed to what it was before the Aspen trip, but not to the way it was when they were first married. The two shared a room and a bed, but Linus rarely slept there. Instead, he retreated to his spare room, to his notepads and writing.

The excitement of the first pages he’d written had abandoned him and refused to return. He was blocked, angry, and hungry once again.

A light tap sounded on his door. Fancy was mobile with crutches, and as long as she didn’t try using them down the steep staircase by herself, she could go anywhere. She had also weaned herself off all her antidepressants and Xanax, which only infuriated Linus.

Now she was awake and bored. Without Barry Wilcox, she was also lonely and annoying. Linus had thought about reuniting the two, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Linus winced at Fancy’s manicured fingernails rapping at his door. He hoped one would break off. Painfully.

“What?” he snapped.

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

“Come on, Linus, unlock the door.”

Linus rubbed circles into his forehead. He huffed to the door and opened it wide enough for one eye.

“Hello?” Fancy asked.

“I’m working.”

“Can I read any of it yet?”

“No.”

“Well, I thought we could go out to dinner tonight. I’m dying to get dressed up and be anywhere but here. Aren’t you?” She moved within inches of Linus’s eye.

“Can’t. Working.”

“Come on, Linus, let me in!” She shoved against the door, knocking a red crease into Linus’s forehead and cheek. He staggered back, holding his face.

“Sorry!” She laughed. “I forgot how close you were standing!”

He didn’t believe her. She knew what she was doing. Fancy ignored Linus and hobbled past him to his workstation. She leaned her crutches against his desk. She maneuvered the lamplight above the yellow notepad and skimmed over the words.

“Remember,” he said, biting his thumbnail,  “it’s just the first draft.”

She nodded, lifting the pad and reading. She flipped to the next page and then read several more pages after that. Something flashed across her face. What it was, he didn’t know. She flattened the sheets and placed them on the desktop.

“Well?” he asked. “What do you think?”

“Umm, what happens next?” she asked, “Does he kill his wife, or does she catch on and call the police?”

Linus studied Fancy for a long stretch without answering. Did she suspect it was autobiographical? How far into the story had she read? She fidgeted.

“It’s a dark comedy, right?” she asked, staring past him at the door. “An author who only gets inspired when he tries to kill his wife? It’s clever.” Her throat had gone dry, which was evident from the way she tried swallowing again and again.

He brightened. “Yes. Does it work? Is it funny enough?”

“Sure,” she said. Her giggle was nervous. He moved around her and wrapped his arms about her waist. She stiffened. He rested his head on her shoulder. Her pulse hurled against the skin in her neck.

“I mean, it’s no Promise,” her voice caught. “What does Penelope think?”

“She agrees with you. She says it’s still too rough but thinks it’s going somewhere. She wants me to go darker with it, though.”

“Darker?”

“Yeah, but how much darker can I go?” he asked. “Have any ideas?”

He could see the vein in her neck raised and pulsing even out of his peripheral. He spun her around.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he asked. “Your heart’s really pumping. You’re sweating. You’re not having Percocet withdrawals, are you?”

Fancy’s hand flew to her chest. She stepped back, but the desk was in her way. The dim light of the lamp was bisected by the lampshade, throwing circular light directly up to the ceiling and down on the desk.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“No, you’re not,” he touched her face. “I guess I’ve been neglecting you. It’s all this stress and worry about writing another bestseller. Sorry I upset you. Now that you mention it, I am hungry.”

Linus kissed the bottom side of her wrist, then handed her the crutches. He flipped on the bedroom light and caught a look of relief settling on Fancy’s face.

“I guess I can stop working for the night.”

“Great! I thought you could wear that burgundy jacket of yours with a blue tie?”

“I hate that jacket,” he said. “Besides, I’d prefer ordering in.”

“But I just said I wanted to eat out.” Fancy’s eyes narrowed, shooting flaming arrows at him. “Linus, I need to get out of this stinking house! I’m suffocating here.” She looked him up and down. “And you look a mess.”

He said nothing.

“The burgundy jacket will make you look presentable in public.”

Linus watched her amble out of the room and down the hall. A gray cloud fell around her and he was dreaming once again. He could see her silhouette inside the haze. She was limping—-weak–an easy kill.

He fantasized about her toppling down the staircase–head, feet, head, feet–and it fueled his appetite. The sound of her head cracking against the wall and stairs sent butterflies into his stomach. Skull fragments piercing her brain made Linus feel warm and fuzzy all the way down to his toes.

When awareness brought him back, Fancy had passed the stairs and was already in her bedroom. He heard the shuffle, slide, shuffle of her leg boot against the Italian marble on the bathroom floor. She was heading to the closet, hunting for his ugly jacket. Once found, along with some horrible blue tie, she’d parade him around like a dog on a pinstriped leash. He wouldn’t let that happen. He got an idea.

“Linus?” she called. “You coming?”

“Give me five minutes.”

Linus quickly outlined the story’s ending. He placed his notepad in the bottom desk drawer and left his room.

The length of the hall shifted, growing long and winding. He turned off the switch that operated the lamp on the hall table and unscrewed the light bulb.  A light in the kitchen was on. The television was off.

Skipping the squeaking top step, Linus crept downstairs. He flicked off the kitchen light and turned on the TV and upped it to almost full volume to suppress any other noise a neighbor might hear. A blue strobe bounced off the ceiling, the couches, and the floor. It flashed across the kitchen and made it’s way to the handrail, illuminating it. Linus opened the junk drawer and found a Phillips screwdriver.

He sidled along the staircase and loosened the screws securing the handrail to the wall. Linus rushed up the rest of the flight and unscrewed the railing’s top fasteners, before stopping to collect his breath.

Once inside the master bedroom, Linus turned out the light. He placed the screwdriver on his dresser. Fancy’s cell phone rested on the bed. It buzzed. He turned off her phone and pocketed it before heading to the bathroom.

The glare of the closet’s light filtered across the bathroom tile. Fancy was in there. The sound of metal hangers sliding back and forth was louder than the sitcom laugh track booming downstairs.

He slipped off his shoes and placed them behind the door. Fancy’s crutches leaned on the other side, against the door jam. He sneaked them to the bottom of the tub. He listened at the door. She was talking to herself in a barrage of frustration over her clothes and the boot she wore on her leg. Linus moved, and the floor groaned underneath him.

“Linus?”

He closed his eyes. It would be over soon. He opened his eyes and inhaled. Now, to pick a fight with his wife. He walked in to find her half dressed. She wore a white button-down shirt and was attempting to pull on a pair of trousers. A pant leg was lying in a puddle around her booted foot.

“How ‘bout a skirt?” he asked.

“You’re giving me fashion advice?” He saw her try to smile at him, but it waned and flattened on her lips. “That’s not the kind of help I need from you.”

Fancy pointed to her boot and held onto the clothes rod. Linus rolled down her slacks. Small black hairs stippled her leg, making it rough and prickled. He let his fingers drag up and down them.

“What? You think you don’t have to shave your legs for me anymore?”

“You’re one to talk!” Fancy retorted. “You look like a mountain man or an Alaskan logger.”

“Right. Want to play that game? Let’s play!”

He yanked the pant leg off the toe of her boot. She howled. Linus snatched a handful of dresses and threw them to the floor.

“These make you look like your mother,” he said.

“Stop it!”

He ignored her and ransacked the other side of the closet, pulling sweaters and pants she had given him over the years. He threw them in a pile.

“What are you doing?”

“Making kindling,” he said. “I mean, everything I own looks like crap, right? We can’t possibly go out with me looking like this. Maybe I should just stick to tank tops and shorts like your good pal Barry?”

“What are you talking about? What about Barry?”

“He was there while you got your stomach pumped,” Linus said. He flashed her a fake smile. “He told me everything. Still, I forgave you.”

“Oh, Linus.”

Linus spun around and headed in the direction of the bedroom. She snagged his arm. He shrugged out of her grasp.

“Let’s talk about this–“ Fancy called after him.

“No. I’m starving. We’re eating in. Sushi for two, sound good?”  He called over his shoulder. He hadn’t forgotten Fancy was allergic to fish.

Fancy’s anxiety sparked shocks inside him that warmed his blood. Linus hurried down the hall to his room. He could faintly hear Fancy walk through the bathroom. She’d look for her crutches and then her cell phone. Linus tapped the rectangle he’d shoved into his pocket earlier. He waited, his eyes adjusting to the dark.

Fancy was in the hall. The light switch in the hallway clicked twice, but the lamp never went on.

“Linus?” she called. She probably assumed he was sulking on the couch, watching Seinfeld. He grinned. It was working. The whole plan was falling into place. His pulse quickened, and saliva filled his mouth. This was it! He was the snake and Fancy was the rabbit.

From the door of the spare bedroom, Linus tracked her. He squinted. Fancy’s pace was glacial without her crutches.

A squeak from the floor alerted Linus that she was descending the staircase. He slithered into position against the adjacent wall. She held onto the railing with each hand, lumbering down a step at a time.

He peered around the corner. The flares of light from the television made Fancy’s movements shudder like a stop motion film. She was on the fourth step. He pounced.

The top stair squeaked under Linus’s weight. Her head snapped to the side.

“Linus?”

He lunged at her. He pushed, knocking her off balance. She tipped and threw her limbs around the railing. Something glinted from her right hand. The rail shook free from the wall and collapsed in Fancy’s arms. Her head bent down and she dropped the bar.

Linus sped towards her, his hands poised to shove her one last time. She spun around and screamed.

He didn’t realize what had punctured his side until he saw the yellow handle of the screwdriver protruding out of him. He felt no pain as he pitched forward, down the staircase, headfirst. He felt no anger either. He was falling, not into a gray fog but into nothingness.

It was the beeps and gasps of machines that awakened Linus, followed by a stench of antiseptic. He opened his eyes. The burn of florescent light blurred objects into one before separating them. He was in a hospital room. Something fat was propped in his mouth and he couldn’t move his neck. At first, he assumed he was tied down, but he couldn’t wiggle his fingers or his toes.

Fancy leaned over a plant, watering it with a plastic cup. A large silver Mylar balloon sticking out of the pot said, “Get Well Soon”.

“Sweetheart, you’re awake again,” she cooed. “The doctor called and said you were conscious.” She sat down on his hospital bed and crossed her once broken leg. A red scar ran down the front of her shiny and newly shaven shin.

“Let me catch you up. You had a bad spill in the house and didn’t land well. We must have been a sight when the police came—-you, broken at the bottom of the stairs and me, wearing a just a blouse and panties. I told the cops you were fixing the handrail, making it more secure so I wouldn’t fall, when you slipped and fell on the screwdriver. It’s so… so… what’s the word? Ironic! They agreed it was all a crazy accident.” Fancy laughed. “Do you know what paraplegic means? Don’t worry, you will.”

Linus blinked, searching for the soft gray haze of a dream.

“I got a hold of Penelope Port,” Fancy went on. “We’re going ahead with your book. Of course, I’ll fill in the ending with your final notes. You know, I never understood your hunger to write before; there is something to it. Also, your treatment is going to be slow and painful. But Barry has agreed to help with your physical therapy. We’ve been talking and meeting a lot…”

Though she kept talking, Fancy went soundless. For a moment, panic seized him, encasing him in a blood red cloud. It was then that Linus realized his big mistake. In all the time he spent quenching his hunger–of being the snake–he’d never considered what it was like for the rabbit.

Linus couldn’t move. He couldn’t fight. The familiar hum of nothingness filled his ears, whispering. It was hungry, too. Numbness sprang on him, coiled around him, and devoured him from the head down. The only power left for him was to concede.