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I look in the mirror and hold up my two dress options. My frustration grows exponentially as I sway back and forth, and hold each one up and compare them. “Maybe I just shouldn’t go,” I think aloud. “Dinner parties suck anyway.” I wrap myself in a black satin robe, and unpin my up-do, letting my honey blonde waves fall over my shoulders. “Hold on a second. If I curl my hair and wear the red dress-” I’m torn away from my thoughts by my husband Matthew’s deep, bellowing yell, followed by the piercing clang of metal hitting the tile floor.
I hate that sound.
I ignore the commotion. Matthew gets worked up over every. Little. Thing. I’ve never really loved him. I don’t think so, anyway. I mean, I like him, sometimes. I was 18 when I got pregnant, he was 22. He had a decently stable job, and he convinced me that the best option, for our child, would be two parents in one house. So we got married, and that’s pretty much been our life. Matthew is now a CEO of the company he’s been working for since he was 22. I’ve been in and out of part-time jobs, mostly because I get easily bored by them, and end up quitting.
Our son Thomas is now 18 and a senior in high school. Just like his father, he’s captain of his swim team. Last week, he got his acceptance letter from Stanford University, after being recruited for the past two years.
As I’m thinking about my perfect son, I hear him yelling back to his father.
Shit.
My maternal propels me down the stairs and into the kitchen, where I find Matthew hovering over Thomas, who at six foot one, is now only an inch shorter than his father.
They’ve been fighting non-stop since the day Thomas was born. But it wasn’t until this past year that the fighting has been this horrific. Matthew has been having a sort of identity crisis, now that he isn’t the only strong, successful man in the family. He starts these fights, even when Thomas doesn’t do anything wrong, just to prove that he is still the alpha male in the house.
I don’t know what this particular fight is about, but it doesn’t even matter. It’s bad. Matthew grunts and shoves Thomas into the the stove. In an attempt to steady himself, Thomas puts his hands down on the stove behind him, not knowing it’s on.
I screamed.
“What are you looking at?” Matthew turns and starts walking toward me, giggling like a psychopath.
“Matt, he just burned his hands!” I slowly back away as Matthew gets closer. I freeze. Do I stay here? Should I run? My eyes dart between Thomas and Matthew. Thomas watches in panic, and I can see him begin to hyperventilate. I look up at Matthew, who is now staring down at me.
“Let our son, speak for himself. He’s a big boy now, Hannah!” His tone is mocking, but soft. He’s hit me before, but I think I’m okay right now. He seems to be calming down. I think. Wow I hate him. I wish he would just die-
“MOM!” Thomas yells, but before I can move, I feel a fist hit my eye, and I drop to the floor.
My head is pulsing. I open my right eye, and look up at the ceiling, confused. I remember Matthew punching me. Oh no. Thomas. I jerk up and look around, then stop.
There’s Matthew, lying face down, motionless on the floor in front of me.
A knife handle is poking out of his neck, and a pool of blood has formed around his head. I’m not crying. I feel devious as a smile cracks my face. He’s dead! I’m finally safe. Wait. He’s dead. Why the hell is Matthew dead. I begin to frantically look around the crime scene, when I discover a blood stained note pad with Thomas’s handwriting.
“I’m at Grandmas.”
I stare at the note. Waiting for more answers. Like they’re just going to write themselves.
I don’t know how long I stare at the note. I break out of my daze. 10:56 p.m.
Now what.
I pick up the note, and throw it into the fire that made our house seem so warm in the frigidness of mid January. I look at my husband, half expecting he’s going to wake up and tell me what happened. “Matthew? What the fuck!” I cry and drop down on my knees next to him. Maybe I did love him. At least a little. I grab the knife’s handle and pull it out. It makes a squishing sound and I gag. “Maybe he’s okay. Maybe he just needs to go to the hospital…” My voice trails off as I attempt to comfort myself. He’s dead, Hannah.
He’s dead.
Without thinking, I put the knife in the empty dishwasher and dizzily walk to the garage door. I open it and stumble out, gently closing the door behind me. Still in my robe, I get into my black, 2016 Cadillac Escalade, the one Matthew had bought me as an apology after I found out about his sixth affair. I slide onto the buttery, tan leather seat, and start the car.
Now what?
I need to see Thomas.
Thomas.
Thomas killed Matthew.
I think I knew this from the moment I saw Matthew’s body on the floor. My son killed my husband. My perfect son. My sniffles turn into sobs. I lay my head down on my steering wheel, and the horn blares. I don’t care though. As the horn continues, I ponder what’s to come. Thomas is going to go to jail. For life. Damn his early January birthday. Damn Connecticut state laws. How does being 18 make someone an adult? He’s still my little boy. Thomas killed Matthew. To protect Matthew from killing me.
Protect. I need to protect him. I have to save Thomas. He has so much going for him. He’s going to Stanford. He can’t go to jail. But how do I stop it?
I can turn myself in. I can cover my black eye with concealer, and go to the police station and tell them I killed him. Because I found out he cheated on me again. And it was the last straw. But now I feel guilty, so I turn myself in. Yeah. That’s it! That could work!
But then I go to jail for life. And Thomas grows up with no parents. No parents to drop him off at Stanford. No parents to congratulate him after his first college swim meet. No parents to see him graduate, get married, or start a family. I can’t go to jail.
I lift my head off the steering wheel and the horn stops. I stare through the window at the garage wall. Why can’t life be as simple as this plain, cement wall.
My options tangle with each other. Just before I’m driven into insanity, I make my decision. 12:09 a.m. I put my car into reverse, and start backing out and drive straight through the garage door that I forgot to open. My car is ruined.
I don’t care.
Five minutes into the ride, I pull the car over next to a cemetery. “I can’t do this,” I whisper as I drive back home.
I’m about to pull back into my driveway, but a realization stops me.
If Thomas goes to jail, he won’t need a mom to be with him through every phase of his life. Because his life will be prison.
I’m doing it. I have to stop thinking. Because I’m doing it.
I turn on the radio to max volume to drown out my own thoughts. As if the DJ knows my conundrum, “Man Down” by Rihanna blares through my speakers.
I didn't mean to end his life,
I know it wasn't right.
I can't even sleep at night,
can't get it off my mind.
I need to get out of sight,
fore I end up behind bars
I cringe, but continue to drive.
Oh mama, mama, mama-
I just shot a man down.
I scream and shut off the radio as I pull into the police station.
12:32 a.m.
I see Thomas’s forest green ford explorer, and park next to it. Shit.
I rip the keys out of the ignition and run into the police station, where I see five police officers surrounding my son. Handcuffing him.
“I had to,” Thomas mouths to me.
He had turned himself in.
I was too late.