"You should trust my judgment," I told the four people standing in my giant, well-furnished living room. "After all, I am a brain surgeon."
I really am. I have a wall full of certifications that prove it.
I tried not to feel superior to the four people I was holding at gun point. It's difficult to stay humble when the world acts like you're a minor god. I had wondered if that was the reason my wife's affection started to decline a year ago.
I glanced at her, next to me, unconscious, tied to the solid dining room chair that I'd dragged to the living room.
Memories crowded my mind. We'd had a good if lopsided marriage. I provided the income, status and brains, Julia provided the beauty and nurturing. We married when I started medical school. She was the curvaceous bombshell. I was the rising star. She didn't have my intelligence, I didn't have her looks. Though she wasn't my intellectual equal, she was loyal, supportive, and a tigress in bed. We were happy. At least as happy as most couples were.
The first twenty-five years of marriage took a toll on her appearance. She'd done the hard work of raising our two children. She wasn't a beauty any more. She gained weight. Things sagged.
I was jerked out of my reverie when Mick, our twenty-three year old son, made a sudden move toward me. I quickly aimed the gun at him. "Dad," he pleaded, "whatever the problem is, killing Mom is not the answer."
Beth, our twenty-one year old daughter, simply held out her hands. "Dad, I know you suspect she's having an affair. The signs are all there. But don't shoot her. Please. We'll work this out." Mick stared at his sister, his jaw falling off his face. Mick inherited his mother's IQ. Beth had mine.
I'd always loved Julia, even if I was awkward at expressing it, and I loved having her in my bed. I always hoped she felt the same. Was I tempted by other more attractive women? All the time. Brain surgeons are treated like deities, after all. But I never seriously considered cheating on her. And I thought she'd never cheat on me. Until last year.
She toned up her body at the same time she began going out with her new girlfriends. "No men allowed," she informed me when she left on these excursions, wearing her new, sexier wardrobe. I wasn't naive. I knew what an affair looked like from the outside. What hurt me the most was the slow emotional death. As that year progressed she went from cool, to chilly, to frozen. I became a hated nuisance, only necessary for paying the bills.
Eric shouted, "My gosh, what did you inject her with?!" Someone finally noticed the used syringes on the table behind Julia.
