For Better For Worse

She sat menacingly in the dark, her ominous silhouette outlined on the wall as full headlamps flooded the living-room. Swirling in her left hand was a goblet of crimson wine while a tiny pistol held tightly in her right palm pointed towards the entrance. The gentle throbbing of the car outside dies down and the room is once again buried under a blanket of darkness. The door creaks gently as a Man dressed in dark Blazers with his tie unknotted walks in and turns the key behind him. He glances towards the living- room but faces pitch blackness, the thick parlour drapes prevents even the tiniest shimmer of moonlight from penetrating the living-room. He momentarily ponders the lack of electricity, until the realization that repairs on the transformer was presently ongoing settles his mind. 

He mutters something incoherent in vernacular as he walks towards the staircase, then he hears a slurp-ish sound. ‘Onye no eba’ (who is there).

The question floats into the void as his heavy baritone bounces off the walls and resonates around the house. He squints his eyes and descends cautiously into the darkness. Dipping his right hand into the lapel pocket of his blazer, he retrieves a mobile phone, speaks a few commands to the device as a pinhole burst of light illuminates the barrel of a gun aimed at his head. His eyes widen in shock as a deafening missile whooshes pass his left ear. The phone drops to the ground as his hands instinctively rushes to protect his face. The white light beams on his face revealing a bland countenance of horror, like a ghost facing exorcism.

She takes another sip of the velvet liquid from her glass while gesturing with the pistol towards the armchair opposite her. With ears still ringing and blood trickling down his sparse sideburn he let out a dreadful scream that reverberated across the walls of the entire first floor.

“ARE YOU CRA...!!’

Another bullet flew towards him, taking the route above his head, shattering porcelain plates and cups behind him.

“Sweetheart…" she says in an almost faint whisper but clear enough for her husband to decipher over the droning in his eardrums. “...Lower your voice, you wouldn’t want to wake the kids now and besides Ada waking to Daddy’s bloody face would be quite unfortunate”. She finished the sentence with another brisk sip.

Still recovering from shock and the now faint buzz in his eardrums, he sinks dreadfully into the armchair as a wave of nervousness swallows his entire body. Heavy beads of sweat forms on his forehead. His shirt suddenly feels too tight, he moves to release some buttons when the room is suddenly showered with light from chandeliers above and a blast of cold air from the industrial Air Conditioning unit hits him. He could see her clearly now, Mascara dripping down her face with pieces of shredded hair stuck on her face. There was something about the way she sat, like a deranged dictator seated on an iron throne sipping blood from a golden chalice. The parlour looked as bad as her. Broken China littered the floor, two empty bottles of wine carelessly discarded and a white polo shirt with a pink lipstick stain on the collar spread neatly across the table.

He lifted his eyes off the table and froze at her cold stare. Something about how comfortable she was sent chills down his spine. His attention turned to his face again when he noticed the confluence of blood and sweat dripping onto his collar. He contemplated wiping his face but shivered at the thought of what would happen if he moved a muscle.

“How was work...dear?” she coos with a sinister smile.

If the sight of his wife pointing a gun at him startled him, then her first question flung him into spiralling confusion. He had been so meticulous while hiding the gun, considering the safety of his Daughter and ignoring the tenacity of his Wife. He concealed the weapon inside the pocket of his spare lab coat. One of the many errors he was going to correct, if he somehow survived this. He had to tread carefully now, pick his next words with surgical accuracy, one wrong move could be fatal.

The prolonged silence felt like he was stalling, and so she repeated the question.

"Nothing much going on around the ward, had a rough time with a patient to…"

“A rough time ehn!!”? She interjects sarcastically

He ignores her snide remarks and continues “...towards the end of my shift. She was suffering from Multiple personality disorder. She did not recognize me at first, so I had to engage the different personalities to get her to switch. Each has their own postures, gestures, and distinct way of talking. There was even one personality that started speaking fluent Russian..." His eyes widening in fascination as he succinctly articulated the highlights from the session. "…It’s why I came in extra late" he finishes calmly.

She knew what he was doing, misdirecting. Bringing up cases he knew she would find interesting. She was not going to fall that easily until he confessed what she suspected.

Perhaps she'd overreacted by pointing the gun at him, but her emotions got the better of her when she saw the filthy stain on the collar of the shirt she had gotten him on his birthday barely two nights ago. At first, she assumed it was her colour, but she never wore that watered-down shade of red. She inspected it further before the realization that it belonged to someone else became clear to her. She flew into a rage, throwing the pile of dirty clothes on the floor, breaking a few perfumes before entering his wardrobe to inspect more of his clothes for incriminating evidence. As she rummaged through coats and suits, she found something in his overall pocket. She always wondered where he'd hid it after he received it from her father. "A man must be ready to protect his family at all times" he said handing a wooden box to them during their wedding.

Well now, she had to protect her family. TO BE CONTINUED...

Author's Profile:

Chimobim is a young African who hails from the Eastern Region of Nigeria. He enjoys long walks and telling himself stories, which he sometimes writes about hoping it resonates in the heart of someone vibing on the same frequency. Nowadays he spends his time on an island wearing crocs and eating sharwama.

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