"Till Death Do Us Part."
By John McGondel, © 2000

 Alan Barstok got up from his chair. It was time to check on the situation in the cellar. He had created a simple machine, and was dying to try it out. He was very proud of his invention, and referred to it as a `Reciprocator'.

There were a couple of small matters to settle first, though... Once in the cellar, he walked past his wife, who was bound and gagged to an easy chair. Her bloodshot eyes followed him, but were limited by the inability of the head to swivel. He patted her hair gently, walking by to flip a wall switch. She made a low, groaning noise. Alan turned to her, and spoke: "Relax my little pet, I'm just putting on some CLASSICAL music. Or do you mind? Darling!" His voice had an edge to it, and she rolled her eyes wildly from left to right and back, twice.

"That's nice, DEAR!"

The ominous sounds of Beethoven's Ninth reverberated through the room. She had always claimed to hate classical music, and for years had forbid him to play it in his own house. Even with headphones on. He then turned the lights down, ever so gradually, delighting in the fact that the dimmer the lights got, the more that her already bulging eyes widened.

"Are you going to be good this time?," Al matter-of-factly inquired of the terrified woman. She nodded miserably. He smiled, pleased, then he tore the surgical tape from her bruised and swollen mouth. He had tried twice before, but she had called out for help, and he had found himself resorting to some rather primitive forms of punishment. She appeared to have finally learned.

Al then turned on a cassette tape which he had paid to have made. "How was your day, honey? Can I get you a beer? Or, would you like a nice backrub first? You've been working so hard to keep me happy. I know! How about a fast shower, and meet me upstairs. We have just enough time before dinner is ready!" Al turned off the tape and glared at his wife. How he had longed to have heard such words.

He sneered at her: "For seventeen long, hard, agonizing years. That's how long I tried to please you. Waiting and hoping for you to change. But you won't ever change, will you, WITCH?" Al had to stop for a moment to calm himself down. His terrified wife sat in the chair, realizing too late that she had finally driven him over the edge of sanity. She had gambled that he would move out first, leaving her the money and the house. She knew then, that she was going to die instead.

"Here's a reminder for you. Remember the company outing? Here is a videotape of it. They're passing it around at work! Everyone's seen it! Even my bosses. Look:" Al switched on the TV and the first thing she saw was herself, deliriously half drunk, leaning up against the embarrassed man next to her. She ran her hand through his hair, while sticking her tongue in his ear. Al had left, having taken the kids with him, outraged and humiliated.

 Then Al turned the lights on. "I think that's enough for now, don't you dear?" He spoke very slowly and evenly, trying not to lose it. Then he turned the music up loud, and produced a needle, holding it to her eye. She gulped but managed somehow to stay quiet.

"Good girl!" Al had filled the needle with lidocaine. "Just to keep you comfy, darling. Anything to keep you comfy, you know me!"

She nodded miserably, as he injected the local anesthetic all of the way around her already bruised and swollen mouth. Then he quickly sewed her numb lips together with catgut fishing line. She knew then that there were only hours left in her life. He kissed her on the forehead, promising to be back in the morning, pausing only to check her I.V. lines, making sure that they were full for the night. Then he left, whistling a tune.

The next day was a special one. Both for Al and for the woman that had been everyone else's, but never really his. He came down to the cellar, feeling as if in a state of grace. At peace with his maker. Her eyes followed him. She was in pain, for the shots had long ago worn off. When she whimpered, it hurt. The crude stitches were becoming infected. He began lighting candles. Dozens of them. Then he began speaking, in a mocking mimic of her shrill voice: "I need more money. More than a worthless man like you could ever give me! You are a miserable, pitiful excuse for a human being!" She remembered the conversation, and how she had puffed on a cigarette, looking him up and down with contempt.

Then it was Al's voice: "Please, let me try? I'll do anything!" He had been systematically reduced to the level of a groveling worm. With no dignity.

She had pounced upon him then, forcing him to do increasingly more humiliating things. He did it all. But grudgingly. And all the while, forces from deep inside were working their way slowly to the surface. Like worms crawling up to the moonlight at night. The Night-Crawlers. And finally they had appeared, in the center of Al's mind.

Al was in a state of near rapture when the `worms' came. They had made everything so clear. He joked, hummed, and whistled. And went down into the cellar for his last visit with his wifey-difey. His little turtle-dovey-lovey...

It was finally time to test his machine. First he took a pair of surgical scissors, and snipped the stitches on her mouth, pulling them out one by one while she whimpered. He pulled out the I.V. lines, whistling. They would not be needed, anymore. He pulled out a plastic tube, which was fastened to his machine at one end. The other end he inserted into her mouth, and part of the way down into her esophagus, taping it around her face. Then, with a hearty: "Here we go!" he pulled on a wooden lever.

A small five dollar gold piece, about the size of a dime, slowly rolled out of the machine and into her throat. She swallowed it quickly, to keep from choking. This increased the weight of her chair, while lessening the weight of the basket which held the gold coins. The basket would raise as it became less heavy, which would eventually cause it to trip a switch on its way up. This switch would activate a solenoid valve, causing it to open and fill the cellar with a very explosive gas.

She would either choke to death, and he could get rid of the body, after of course removing the gold. Or she would swallow the gold coins, and trigger the gas valve. In which case the candles would light the gas and they would both die in a fireball of an explosion.

It didn't matter either way to Alan Barstok anymore. He sat, reading a Harlan Ellison collection of short stories, under the lights of the many candles.

True to his word, he had been faithful to his marriage vows.

Especially the last one: "Till death do us part."