Does Two Wrights - Repercussions

The other shoe drops!

POV = Jesse Wright

The wife Mabel Wright sat, curled up on the couch, quietly sobbing so as to not to disturb her husband. Afraid of another berating, afraid of another beating. Afraid of being raped again. Afraid, afraid.

He was strolling around the house preparing to go out for the evening. He had a date waiting for him to swing by and pick her up. Snickering at the good fucking he had forced on his slave wife. Well, good for him anyway. She no longer had an opinion he had to consider. Jesse whistling as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, carefully combing his hair back.

"Damn! It's Good to be the King!"

As he left, he growled at her "Bitch, don't wait up. Go to bed at ten tonight. Get your slut ass out of bed and have breakfast ready for me at seven, tomorrow morning. Go to work and see if the shop is going to open. If not, take the rest of the morning to start looking for another job. Be home by noon and fix me a hot lunch. I'll let you know about your chores for the afternoon and what I will expect for supper."

He shut the door firmly behind him without another word. She could hear him get in his truck, start it up and pull out of the driveway. Off to do whatever he wanted to do this evening. Off to do whoever he wanted to do it too this evening.

This was the next few days of numb despair and hopeless submission for Mabel Wright. Lucky for her, her husband was getting laid by somebody so he only raped her once more that week.

She endured.

What else can a woman do when the man owns her?

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POV = Mabel Wright

The ex-wife Kate Deever, had come looking for the alimony and child support owing from her missing ex-husband, Kenny Deever. Since there was no one else to accept responsibility, the Bank made it clear they would cooperate with her taking over the shop. They didn't want to have another embarrassing write-off due to their poor lending practices. She had worked there for years before she and Kenny had divorced. So Kate knew how to run the business.

There wasn't enough equity to settle the outstanding personal debts and business loans and the mortgage on the burnt house. The Insurance Company had made it clear that they refused to reward arson. What was left of Kenny Deever's house would eventually be bulldozed and the plot sold at no profit for anyone.

The shop did reopen, at least I still had a job and Kate is a competent and a fair boss. That took some of that pressure off of me. Of course this meant that I couldn't be home to fix my husband's 'hot lunches'.

Jesse just shrugged it off with a casual punch to my belly. Just to make it clear he was still the master of the house and I better not fail to prepare whatever supper he would order me to fix.

At least half the evenings I didn't even have to do that much. Jesse would call me and tell me he would not be home for supper and what time he expected me to be in bed.

Last night he came home roaring drunk. I think he had been celebrating winning a big bet in some football pool. He wanted to fuck but was too drunk to maintain his erection and of course it must be my fault. So my Loving Husband punched me around for a few minutes before exhausted he staggered to the bathroom and made a mess in there. Then he fell into bed and I had to get it all cleaned up before he awakened.

I have had one piece of good luck, one bit of peace. My precious little ones do not have to watch and listen to their mother being tormented. Jesse never even asked where they were! My Sister-in-Law Lucy and my Mother-in-Law were caring for James and Joan at Lucy's house for a while with her twins.

Lucy's husband Rodger Norris has also disappeared. He is presumed to have driven off into the sunset in a drunken stupor. Except it was just an old Nissan pickup he was last seen driving, not a Mustang.

The next morning, grumbling about his hangover, Jesse sneered at me as I cringed from him while serving his breakfast. He ordered me to go get dressed for work. I think he was going to be gloating all day, thinking of the humiliation for me having to publicly display his masculine dominance to everybody I worked with.

The other women, even Kate, commiserated with me, offering their sympathy for having to put up with my husband's abuse. The youngest girl, she was new to our town having married a local boy while they were both in the Service. She asked me why I didn't go to the Township Police.

That set off bitter laughter from all the rest of us women. "The cops here are all male and grew up together. Hell, probably most of them are related by blood or marriage to half the township. Here the police are a family business. They can't be bothered with domestic disputes."

In a small voice, Kate muttered "Sometimes, even the death of a woman at the hands of her husband will at worst, be officially recorded as an accident or suicide."

Then a couple of the women, in hushed tones, named two of the dead women they had known, who had been so callously, officially ignored.

That afternoon, Kate needed some paperwork from her missing husband's attorney and the lawyer sent Margie, who is a paralegal and the wife of my husband's best friend. She looked at my facial bruises and the awkward way I was walking, with horror on her face. Before she left back to her office, Maggie asked Kate if she could use her office to talk privately to me.

Marge bluntly asked "Mabel! Why the hell are letting Jesse treat you like this? Damnit, our office would give you a loan against your inheritance. You could get away, go to the Capitol, get a divorce attorney. Your husband would lose big time if you got a divorce before your Uncle dies."

Confused, I had to have her explain about my Uncles Last Will naming me his heir to all the main property he owned. He had it leased out to a neighboring rancher for an adequate annual income to pay for the hospice he is lingering in. Even the taxes and assessments were paid up.

I finally understood what she was telling me.

A faint flicker of hope went through me.

Then she dropped the Big Bomb on me. "Yeah, uh your husband and I. Uh,we, well dammitt! Jesse and I were uhmm, talking a few weeks ago and I told him about it. I thought he would have explained it to you by now?"

I stammered something out to Marge. Trying to fob her off so I could think about this news and what it meant for my situation. Realizing I needed to be alone to think, she left after urging me to come in and talk to her boss about what I could expect when my Uncle passes.

Kate was kind enough to leave me to myself in her office for the next half-hour. I quickly realized that this knowledge explained a lot! Like, why my husband hadn't kicked me out and divorced me.

Oh, we've all heard Jesse's drunken rants, just like his father, against "Cheating Wives and Girlfriends". "Once a slut cheats, she's always a cheat and never give her a break." "Women should be harshly punished for disrespecting their husbands or boyfriends."

Considering the times Jesse had stepped out on me over our marriage, how come he doesn't owe me any respect? Where's his duty to his family, his wife and children? Pretty damn low on his list of penis-driven priorities.

All that puffed up pride and swaggering Male domination, damnation? of us unworthy cunts. Yeah, his "universal" and "absolute" "moral" qualms against women accused of being unfaithful.

That hypocritical bullshit was so easily, so conveniently forgotten when there is a fortune to be seized. An inheritance to which he has no legitimate claim except through me. And only as I dispose!

But I had two immediate problems to resolve. My husband was hiding the evidence that could convict me of murder. And no one, not even the local police would protect me from him if he decided to become more violent. Even if he held our children hostage from me.

If he thought I might escape his chains, he would either expose me as a adulterous killer or beat me to death himself if he thought he would lose access to my inheritance. His ego would figure, without the inheritance there is no longer any reason to keep me around any longer.

I hope he doesn't realize that if he did kill me, my inheritance would go to our children with him as legal guardian. If he isn't already planning to do away with me. It's just a matter of time, till that horrible thought occurs to that horrible man!

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If I can drunkenly murder the man I loved...

Sober, can I murder the man I hate?

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Do I have the courage to strike before he does?

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Jesse slammed the door open as he stood there braced up against the jamb. I'd guess so he wouldn't fall down. His bloodshot eyes squinted at me and with a sneer he greeted me with a drunken slur. "Hey! There's my slut wife!"

Behind him, his two friends Brad and Stoner left him propped up, to stagger their own way back to their pickup with shouted ribald jokes about how Jesse should 'do' me. A couple of the neighbors stepped outside to see what the hell all the racket was about. Mr. Polanski shouted at the two noisy jerks to shut up! Children were trying to sleep.

They drove off with a crash of gears, a squeal of tires and a blare of horn to let all the neighbors know they don't give a fuck about their complaints.

Jesse just wavered his way in and slammed the door shut behind him. He knew better then to get into another confrontation with Polanski. Our long-time neighbor had been a lumberjack and a trucker. Now he was Union Local officer. Last time Jesse got into the big Polack's face it was Jesse whose face got rearranged.

I kinda hoped for a repeat performance but I guess my husband wasn't that drunk stupid enough yet. Pity.

He staggered over to the kitchen table and plopped himself down in his chair. Propped up from one hand on the table and his other draped over the back of the chair. Jesse gave me a glare and snarled "So killer, where the fuck is my supper!"

He laughed as I flinched at the name calling. I got his plate out of the warm oven, pulled off the aluminum foil I had covered it with and placed it in front of my husband with some utensils. He looked down and sneered and demanded "What the fuck is this slop! Gimme a beer!"

I took a cold Pabst out for him and set it in front of him. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me close as I stammered "Tha, that's what you told me this morning to fix you. Pot roast and potatoes. Just how you like'em."

I scrunched up my face in pain from the way he was twisting my wrist. He enjoyed my look of pain and fear when he wanted to hurt me. But I didn't dare say anything. Complaining would setoff his hair-trigger temper even worse. On a drunken whim I guess he just shoved me away. I barely kept from falling down by ramming my hip into the counter and desperately hanging on.

My husband laughed as he watched me limp away, rubbing the bruises on my wrist. Sucking down the beer between a couple of mouthfuls of meat and potatoes. Then he just shoved the plate away, tossed the can into the trash and got up to get himself another Pabst out of the refrigerator.

Wandering into the living room. He threw himself on the couch and started flipping through the TV channels. I went to recover his plate with the foil and set it in the refrigerator.

I followed him into the living room and as he didn't seem to be fixated on any of the shows, in a timid voice I asked if he wanted something else to eat?

"Stupid bitch. Get me a bag of chips."

I got down a large bag of the extra-spicy barbecue chips he likes and opened it before I took it too him. I was cleaning up the kitchen when I heard him yell for me.

"Get your fat ass in here, slut!"

I rushed in, just in time to have him throw the empty beer can at me bouncing it off my left boob. He thought that was a funny joke. "Get me another, stupid."

I brought in another beer, he was still chortling and I doubt if it was whatever TV show was on that was setting off his funny-bone. I could hear him loudly chewing on the chips.

Back in the kitchen I stopped and steadied myself against the sink counter. I could see a faint reflection of my face in the night-darken window over the sink. I looked at myself and realized my chance has come. Make myself take back my life or I'll never have the courage to free myself from his cruelty.

My hands had been shaking, in fear, anxiety, I guess? But the shivers stopped, I held them out and they were almost steady. As steady as my newfound resolve.

I opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a bottle of bourbon whiskey and left it on the counter by the sink.

With a deep breath, I turned and walked back into the living room. This time I pretended to cringe and duck as the can he threw came right at my face. Just as I had expected. He about fell off the couch laughing at my pretense of fear, spilling chips all over.

I turned and went back to the kitchen and opened another can of beer, then pored some into a plastic cup I set aside for later use. Using a long-neck funnel so it'll go deep into the can I then poured in a shot of whiskey and swirled it around.

After taking it out to Jesse, he just drank it with mouthfuls of the spicy chips. Far as I could tell, he didn't even notice the change in flavor from the added bourbon. He'd have a good laugh every time he hit me with a can. Each time I replaced one, I added a good shot of the bourbon.

He was barely able to focus his eyes when I sat down on the couch with him. Now for the really dangerous part. Trying to trick my husband into revealing where my lover was buried. With the evidence that could convict me of Kenny Deever's murder.

Jesse started roughly pawing at me, barely able to control himself, muttering about giving me the 'good whore fucking' I deserved.

I started whispering how strong and manly and how clever he was to dominate a bitch like me. I rubbed his crotch telling him what a super stud he is and how all the other women want to take him away from me because his cock is so big and he's the boss cocksman of the town.

I continued to whisper "You knew how to get the job done and could beat the crap out of any wimp who crosses you. I'm just a stupid whore to have told him where Deever's body is hidden and Jesse would always own my ass and cunt and mouth."

'Yeah, you stupid whore, just a coupl'a miles past the railroad crossing to the Four and up the creek."

That was the most coherent sentence I could get out of him. Two more beers, each with another shot of whiskey and he finally passed out. Now I had to make a decision. Did I learn enough? That bit about " the Four and up the creek", I've heard that before. I think, no I'm sure I have! And I don't think it was the night I went crazy and killed Kenny. From some time before that terrible night. I was wracking my brain for a dim memory.

I watched my husband sprawled across the couch, drooling like a pig on a pillow. Fuck! I jumped up and away as his bladder let go and he pissed his pants. Looking down at him brought up the memory of his asshole father laid out in his well-deserved coffin. Like father, like son? A whispered prayer from my mouth to God's ear!

Then I started to remember from years ago, a barbecue at his parent's trailer home. The men, standing around the glowing kettle in the graveled yard. Drinking and smoking dope as usual. Bullshitting as usual. I was sitting in a lawn chair next to the door stoop. It was a lot cooler out here then inside the doublewide.

I had to get out of the crowd of women and children inside. I think I was like six or seven months pregnant with Joan at the time. The heat of the crowd and the cigarette smoke and noise of everyone chattering at once was making me feel sick.

Suddenly Jesse and his father started loudly arguing over a hunt they'd been on a few years previous. Must'a been the liquor talking, they kept interrupting each other just to wind up repeating what the other man already had said. Stupid drunk talk! What the hell else could you expect from those two?

A few years before this time, the two of them had been hunting on some ranch land and a sudden storm caught Jesse and his father, by surprise. They found shelter in an abandoned mine tunnel. It was in the Rockyhills, a creek ran down from it to County Road Four. A couple of miles past a railroad crossing.

Okay, now I was confident that I could find the secret grave.

Now it was time to kill my husband.

I don't know how much he'd had to drink before his buddies brought him home. I do know he's had another eight or nine beers and I'd guess about a half-dozen shots of bourbon, since he got here.

On top of about half a bag of chips. All that spicy, salty, oily crap can't be any good for him.

Gathering my courage I went into the bathroom and got out a children's enema kit, took out the bag and soft plastic hose with a contoured insertion point so as not to damage the child's anus. And I hoped it wouldn't leave any marks down Jesse's throat?

I went back in to the kitchen and emptied the rest of the bottle of bourbon into the bag. Then I slathered the inserter and the tube with olive oil. This, with a small wooden spoon, I took into the living room.

Kneeling down next to my snorting, snoring husband, I dripped some whiskey on his lips to get him to open and start suckling at the tip of the inserter. That triggered an automatic response, he opened his mouth enough to get the big end of the spoon in to hold his teeth apart.

I began to feed the tube in, trying to time each push between his breaths to get it down his gullet and not into his lungs. He barely moved except for jerky shudders of his limbs. He was sweating like crazy and his breathing seemed to be getting erratic.

Once I figured I had the tube in as far as it could reach, I opened the spigot and with slow squeezes, fed the rest of that bottle of 90 proof right down into Jesse's stomach. If the info I read on a pamphlet at the Pediatrician's office was correct, this should be enough extra alcohol to kill my husband. Or, if somehow he did survive, it'd do him enough damage that he'll no longer be able to hurt me.

One last squeeze of the bag and I pulled the tube out, then the wooden spoon. Already his skin was turning a sort of greenish-blue and his breathing was coming in fits and starts. I checked the tube had no teeth marks.

I had to hurry now. I rinsed out the enema kit and then put the bag and tube back into its box, then squashed it down and stuffed it into my sack purse for later disposal.

The beer cans I rinsed out and then swilled with some left over unadulterated beer from the cup of excess beer I had saved earlier. I doubt if the cops would even check but I can't raise my babies in prison. So I had to be methodical destroying evidence.

The cans and the empty whiskey bottle I made sure I got Jesse's fingerprints all over them. Forcing the sprout of the bottle into his mouth for whatever residue that would leave for evidence. Dropped a couple of cans on the coffee table, scattering the rest of the cans and the empty bourbon bottle on the floor by the couch. I left all the lights and the TV on.

Jesse was looking pretty peaked. His breathing was slow and harsh, he was gulping for air. Sweat was pouring off of him, his arms and legs were no longer moving except for some faint twitching like he'd been shocked.

The spoon I rinsed off, slapped myself hard in the face with it right above my right eye and then threw it out the back door into the children's sandbox.