AUTHOR'S NOTE
This tale is a little different from my other LW offerings. For one it's told in the third person where I've previously favoured first person. Secondly, it's somewhat darker and more macabre than my previous tales so please consider yourself warned.
My next planned story is a Reconciliation one, so if this isn't your cup of tea keep an eye out for Greatest Gift Of All.
The Garden of Grace was inspired, in part, by a movie and further by a news article. The story is not a depiction intended to mirror a real-life scenario. It's fiction. I've taken artistic licence. So, may I suggest the reader practice a little suspension of disbelief and enjoy the story for the entertainment it is intended to be?
There are flashbacks throughout the story and rather than take you, the reader, out of the story by signposting them I have chosen to write them in italics.
As per my previous stories, I've done my own editing which probably means there's little mistakes I've missed because I'm too familiar with my own words. My best friend, lover, and partner, Vandemonium1, has proofread so if any mistakes remain we can blame him... hahaha, just kidding, sweetheart, I take full responsibility. Oh, and thanks for the lend of the pick axe handle. Sorry I broke it...
Thanks, and happy reading.
A PERSON WHO would kill your love when your love was all you had was not much of a person in Jacob Morissey's estimation.
Even worse if that person was your wife; the person who was meant to love you above all others. The person who knew you better than anyone else. The person who saw you at your most vulnerable moments. The person who had found a way into your heart, your bones, your blood, your soul. Funny how much all-consuming love has in common with cancer.
Jacob came to the conclusion that some loves, like cancer, were benign. Others; malignant. His wife fell into the malignant variety and like it, she had to be cut out and destroyed.
And Jacob knew just how to do it.
It was so perfect he was certain even she would appreciate the method of her destruction. And such a glorious finale.
Jacob looked beyond his workbench, out of the window, to the garden beyond. It was alive with colour. Her English cottage garden. The one she'd spent so much time building and planting. The one she loved so much. Her pride and joy. Yet, she'd abandoned it too.
It would be like coming home for her. Yes, Jacob decided, it was poetic.
******
JACOB STARED AT the blank canvas, brush in hand, for a long time, waiting. Waiting for 'it.'
'It' was difficult to describe. 'It' was an urge, a drive, a tingle in his fingertips, a flutter in his belly, a striving in his soul, and a need in his gut. 'It' was a clear vision in his mind that directed his hand. Without 'it' there was no art.
Jacob did a slow three-sixty, his gaze taking in the four walls of his studio, each of which was lined with blank canvases. They leaned casually, like patrons lounging with wine glasses in hand at one of his opening nights. But unlike blasé art collectors, preparatory sketches were pinned to them, each one accusing him, nagging him to begin.
"What?" he screamed at them. "I'm waiting for 'it,' same as you. You want to have a go at someone, have a go at 'it.'"
Jacob scowled and threw down his brush. It skidded across the floor, stopped only by one of the recriminating canvases. His anger not satisfied he threw his palette to the floor. It landed with a crash face down. Still not satisfied, he kicked it, glorying in the colourful smear it left on the wooden floor. It was the most creative thing he'd achieved in months. Jacob then did what he'd done every day since 'it' had abandoned him. He went for a walk.
He walked the long, familiar, tree-lined driveway. The maples were green with new spring growth. Beneath them, as far as the gate off in the distance, a river of yellow, white, and green. Daffodils.
Jacob's feet were in the present and continued their journey, his mind lagged behind in the past.
"Oh please, Jake. Let's do it. Daffodils are such happy flowers. It will make the house perfect."
Jake hid his smile; 'perfect' was Grace's favourite word.
"But the driveway is so long, it will take thousands."
"True, but they will multiply and every year it will look better and better. They will multiply along with our happiness."
Of course, he said yes. He always said yes to her.
Jacob scowled at the profusion of daffodils. She'd lied. She'd said they were happy flowers. Well, he wasn't happy.
******
DINNER CONSISTED OF a can of cold baked beans eaten while sitting on his studio floor. Dessert was a handful of dried apple, made tough from age and exposure to air. Their leathery consistency gave Jacob's jaw a good workout. He thought longingly of one of Grace's tender, succulent roasts. Jacob tilted his head back and sniffed deeply, fancying he could smell his favourite meat roasting away in the huge double oven; pork with homemade applesauce.
"Baby, you have to stop for the day. Dinner's on the table," Grace whispered in his ear.
Jacob jerked, swivelling his head to look behind. No one was there. Certainly not Grace. She'd left months ago. Shelby was now the recipient of Grace's to-die-for roasts.
"Shelby? What the hell kind of guy has a name like Shelby?" Jacob asked the empty room. "A poncy, effeminate, born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-his-mouth, wannabe art collector with more money than sense, that's who."
Jacob snorted at his own description of the girly-man who'd seduced his wife away from him. The man of fast cars and even faster women. The clichéd, bored, jaded millionaire.
The irony was she'd met Shelby at Jake's last solo show. The fucker had even bought one of Jake's canvases to impress her. Must have wanted into her knickers real bad—he forked out 45K for the privilege. Jacob hoped
'Graceful Dance'
, a semi-abstract piece depicting a woman reminiscent of Grace—hence the play on words of the title—twirling in a bed of daffodils, curdled Shelby's spunk every time he dumped a load in her traitorous snatch.
Jake stood rooted to the spot. He couldn't believe what his eyes were telling him.
'No,' his mind silently screamed.
She was as her name foretold; grace in motion. All sinuous undulations as she rode the man beneath her. Her back arched sensuously, her breasts jutting forward, nipples hard and upturned. Her hands on his thighs and her head tossed back, throat exposed. Her hair reached his thighs and swished back and forth. Jake knew how that felt.
Even in silhouette Jake knew the truth of what his mind tried to deny; it was Grace. His Grace.
Had it been a porno film he was watching, he'd have found it erotic. But it was no softcore porn. It was his wife and it was obscene.
Jake stood frozen for a long time, his hands pressed against his belly, witnessing his betrayal. Witnessing his death. He tore his gaze away from the horror film playing out before his eyes and looked down at his hands...
... Jacob lifted his hands to eye level. He shook his head; for a moment he was certain he'd seen blood.
His hand, of its own volition, grasped the neck of the half full bottle of Jack Daniels. It knew what he needed. His lips obeyed and opened obediently to accept and close around the damp opening. His throat protested, but his stomach welcomed the fire water.
Jacob carefully placed the open bottle on the floor, gently shoving it a small distance away before lowering himself to lay down. He rolled to his side, foetal position.
The studio floor was as good a place as any to sleep.
******
THE SOUND OF a chainsaw starting up close by reverberated in Jacob's head. He groaned as much for the actual noise as for the knowledge it was someone calling him on his cell phone. Why had he chosen it as his ringtone? He wanted to go back to sleep, back to wonderful senseless oblivion. He most certainly didn't want to talk to anyone. Not today. Not ever.
