God

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…but I accidentally opened your letter.”
Bridget felt as though the ceiling caved in on her when she saw the open envelope in her husband’s hand. Her fingers twitched, intending to reach out and snatch the letter away and throw it in the garbage, but instead she made a light fist and squinted at it.
“Who is it from?” She asked. Her voice sounded ridiculously light and airy and far too controlled. She told herself to calm down, pretend everything is allright.
“I don’t know,” Warren shrugged his shoulders, “I’m really sorry- I don’t want you to think I was snooping through your mail, you know I would never do that- I’ve just been expecting a letter from Dad, and I saw an envelope that wasn’t from any bank or anything and I was just over anxious, but as soon as I saw your name on it I put it back in the envelope and put it on the table, I swear.” He nearly threw the letter at her to prove he didn’t want it.
She smiled- more to herself than at him; thank God, he hadn’t opened it. She put the letter over her chest and kissed Warren on the cheek.
She sat down at the kitchen table and her husband stood at the kitchen sink with his sleeves rolled up and turned on the faucet. Bridget didn’t notice that there were only clean dishes in the sink.
As usual, the handwriting on the envelope was different from the handwriting inside, since he had his mother -with her very feminine penmanship- write out the envelope to keep her husband from getting suspicious.
“Dearest Bridget,” it started. She wrinkled the paper between her tense fingers, biting her teeth together. She hated his juvenille handwriting- it looked like that of an eighth grade boy’s. To think, it belonged to a man in his 30s. Not long ago she thought his ignorance was charming, even cute. He had reminded her of a dumb puppy that would follow you around with a loving look in its eyes even after you had given it a good solid kick. At first she’d been attracted to his naivete, but now it just annoyed her.
“How are you? This is Tim- I just got your last letter. Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out. You just came to visit what six months ago? So you should be able to get rid of it or something? Unless you want to keep it, I don’t know. Maybe your husband might think it’s his or something? But I need to get it off my chest I don’t like the idea of that, it really makes me sad when I think of your husband raising our baby…it would be half mine and none of his, and it just doesn’t seem right. I know you’re probably happy there on your Ranch, and I know I really don’t have any money…but if you want to come up here with me that would be ok with me. More than ok, actually, you and the baby are welcome. We could even get a dog for the baby or something, and if you wanted to you could –“DAMN ”
Bridget’s body jerked and her intense dislike of the man she had once been infatuated with was momentarily forgotten.
“Damn it ” Warren groaned through clenched teeth, holding onto the finger he’d just sliced open.
“What?” Bridget asked.
“Damn Oh that hurt like a son of a bitch ”
Bridget rolled her eyes, “What?”
He laughed a little, and then added, “Well that was stupid of me ” If this had happened during their first few months of marriage Bridget would have run over with a clean dishtowel, put it on his injured hand and fussed over him, but she’d long since grown tired of fussing. He was a grown man; he could take care of himself. She could tell he was waiting for her to ask, again, what was wrong, but she didn’t. Instead,
she went back to her letter while her husband went on laughing at himself and putting pressure on his finger with the dish sponge.
“-if you wanted to you could come live with me here. I know my house is kind of small but my dad is really good at working on houses and he could put in another room for our baby if you wanted. Just please let me know? I hope you don’t regret meeting me…because I love you you know? Write back soon please.
Yours,
Tim”

Warren turned around and saw her staring at her letter, “May I ask who it’s from?”
She stared at the paper without reading it; heard her husband without paying attention.
“Honey?” He said, shaking his hand as though that would make the wound magially disappear. “Who’s the letter from?”
“My sister,” she said without any tone, and immediately hated herself for giving him any answer-even though it was a lie. What she wanted to say was that it was none of his goddamn business who it was from. It could be from the pope and it still would be none of his business.
He snickered a little to himself, repeating “My sister,” and then laughed. If Bridget had been paying attention, she would have heard the bitterness in his laugh. She would have heard the sarcasm in his voice that was so rarely there. She would have known something was wrong, but she was too busy rereading the hated letter.
“How’s she doing?” He asked, wiping his own blood off the knife.
“Fine.”
“I was thinking,” Warren said, still running the paper towel over the blade, long after the blood was gone, “we haven’t been out to eat in such a long time, maybe we could do that tonight. It would be nice ”
“Fine.”
“I’m going to the drug store later, do you need anything?” He grabbed some milk out of the fridge. He still held onto his knife, but absentmindedly, as though he’d forgotten about it.
“No,” Bridget said, running her hand through her hair, “I think I’m going to give Maggie a call, I hate writing letters.”
She flew into the bedroom, closing the door behind her gently. She sank onto the bed, taking the letter out of her pocket.
“What am I going to do?” She asked out loud, wishing the chair, desk, pillow, anything could give her an answer, but not a single thing did. The only response she got was a low rumbling sound coming from her stomach-an area she wished she could forget about. She tore Tim’s letter up into tiny pieces, squeezed the shreds in her fist, and threw it in the trash. They had all ended up there lately. She realized just then, she hated him Just months ago she thought she was in love, and because of that she was going to have his baby. A piece of him would be with her forever, and that made her skin crawl. She grabbed one of the pillows, buried her face in it and started to cry.

She couldn’t hear the footsteps walking slowly down the hall, or the old door slowly creaking on it’s hinges as somebody pushed it open. For all she knew, she was completely alone in her room, sobbing without any restraints. Those slow yet rhythmic footsteps were getting closer to her with every second that passed. Warren smiled with misty eyes as he saw his wife lying on the bed, crying.
Good, he thought to himself, that’s exactly what she should be doing. That’s exactly what she deserved. He gripped the kitchen knife even tighter, thinking of how grateful he was that that knife would finally be used. It had been sitting there in the kitchen for years, collecting dust. A knife that size really served no other purpose than that which it was about to serve. He brought it closer to his wife, so close it picked at her red sweater, but she didn’t notice. Warren stood above his wife, listening to her sobs; almost nothing could be more satisfying than hearing the tortured cries of one’s torturer. Almost.
He was overcome with his own pain, and his anticipation of ending it. He lost any interest in controlling the situation, he just wanted it to be done. He grabbed his wife by the shoulder and turned her on her back -he ought to have suspected she was pregnant; she had gotten so fat. He didn’t get to see the look of terror in her eyes that he wanted to, before she was given the chance to understand what was happening to her, he plunged the knife into her abdomen. He couldn’t believe how horrifying she looked; her eyes were red and huge,and now filled with a look of betrayal. Her face was the same color as the pink plastic flamingoes sticking out of their lawn. Her lips quivered, and she only muttered a single indistinct sound. She now was like the puppy who had been kicked, and Warren couldn’t stand it. He grabbed her around the neck and pulled her to his chest, driving the knife even harder into her stomach. He felt her go limp, but knew that horrible look would still be in her eyes. He let her fall back onto the bed, and closed her eyes clumsily. He got up and paced around the room with his bloody hands on his head. Finally he decided to dig through his desk drawer, and found exactly what he was looking for : two pennies. They would have to do. He walked back over to the dead body -or, bodies- and placed one coin over each of her closed eyes. He’d seen that done on television when he was young, and was pleased as punch that he finally got to perform it.
He stepped back and admired his work. The idea that this was his wife, the woman he’d dated, fallen in love with, proposed to, married, and shared his life with, was now dead, because of him, never entered his mind. He didn’t allow it to. Several times that nagging guilt tried to sneak in, but he made it known that guilt was not welcome. He had taken care of himself, that was all. He hurt and the source of his pain was now extinguished. What managed to worm it’s way into the back of his brain was far worse: he had killed an unborn child.
But it couldn’t be innocent, he argued, it was born out of adultery and would have been sinful. It would have gone to hell anyway, and he simply spared it the life it would have gone through before it burned eternally. He was, in fact, being a good Christian and accepting his responsibilities; doing God’s work. He smiled at that. He realized he was God.