Muted Melody

          She spotted him sitting in the tattered corner booth in the back of the bar. He was alone, as he should be, She strutted her emaciated frame past the gawking men in line for a drink.
          “Let me get this lady a drink, barkeep!”
          She threw the drunk degenerate an annoyed glance and kept walking. This place, their place, brought back so many memories. His first gig had been here and it had been such an exciting time for them both. After that, the band exploded and was soon signed by a major label, leaving her and this dive in the dust. The bar really had gone downhill, as did their marriage. She had been supportive of Michael’s music ever since they first met and financially supported him while he was out of a real job. His musical ambition was one of the things that made her attracted to him and why she believed in him so much. But after Michael found fame and recognition, it seemed he had all the support in the world and decidedly took her for granted.
          They had been together for just over two years, two years completely devoted to him. She nonchalantly gave up her career, and left her family and friends behind just so she could move out to the Valley to be with him. Granted, he was on tour most of the time, but she thought the distance would only make their love stronger.
          The day before he was to arrive home from a two month tour in England, she went to the store so she could welcome Michael back home with his favorite meal. Leaning on the magazine rack was a tabloid with a devastating shot of her husband mauling a topless groupie with the headline The Many Women of Michael Forbian. Knowing that tabloids take pictures out of context and lie most of the time, she cautiously opened to the four page section and gasped in horror. How could the man to whom she was so devoted do this?
          She waited until he returned for the confrontation. She prepared her beloved’s dinner and was thanked with, “I’m going out.”
          “But, Michael! I haven’t seen you in months and it’s your favorite. I worked really hard making it for you!”
          “I didn’t tell you to, did I? No!”
          She stormed into the kitchen and flung the magazine in Michael’s face.
          “Oh. I thought you might see this. I’ll have someone come by and pick up my stuff.”
          He shut the front door behind him and never came back. She couldn’t believe that he had cheated on her, and was even more astonished that he wasn’t apologetic. She called him everyday to try to talk to him and eventually he had his cell phone number changed. Their divorce was handled by the lawyers and Michael went back on tour. She wondered what had gone wrong, why her seemingly perfect husband did not love her. Months went by and she became increasingly obsessed with their failed marriage. She stopped leaving the house, eating, talking to anybody; she would lie in bed, fanatically examining the tabloids and pictures of him with his new leading accompaniments. She wondered what they had that she didn’t, and how to make him come back to her.
          It was only recently that the crescendo of her insanity reached the breaking point. People Magazine reported that Michael was engaged to the “It Girl” of the small screen. She couldn’t bear the thought of him being happy when she couldn’t even eat a grape without purging at the thought of the perfect celebrity couple. She hadn’t skillfully devised a plan of how to do it; in this state of mind, how could she? She just knew that she must do it. She thought of no consequences; she had no worries. She just wanted him. Dead.
          The crimson overhead lighting in the bar reflected an eerie hue in her eyes, which were usually an angelic baby blue, while she took her last few steps toward perdition. She reached the rear of the pub and the repugnant stench of tequila was more than obvious. Michael seemed unaware that she was there; nothing had changed. He hummed a little ditty while staring blankly at himself in the mirrored tiles that lined the booth wall.
          “Still conceited as ever, aren’t we Darling,” she said with a smug look on her face as she scooted into the booth beside him.
          “What the fuck are you doing here? Still can’t get enough of me, huh?”
          “No.” She smirked sarcastically, “I just had to get one last look at you in all of your glory.”
          Then she gently pulled out the jagged knife from her handbag, and with crimson lights shining and one hard thrust, jabbed in into his overindulgent stomach. She twisted the blade, tearing his insides and Michael screamed in a painful octave he could never before reach. She broke off the handle of the poorly made knife, and in a moment of clarity, stepped back to look at her scarlet colored success. She smiled as he squirmed, grappling at the hole in his intestines. Before the rowdy roughnecks of the bar noticed his cries, she gazed down on him apathetically and pulled out her rusty Derringer.
          “I’m going to make this much less painful for you than you did for me.”
          The blast hurled everyone’s attention to their bloody booth and they flew at her as she dropped the gun to the floor.
          Three months later the jury deliberated, and even with her confession and her lawyer’s insanity defense, they quickly reached the verdict of first degree murder of their beloved rock god. She was to receive the death penalty for her sins, as did he.