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Yahhh, what’s the serial killer’s issue? I thought she’d be totally sane /s.
ShockAndBlah:
Okay. . . hot take but. . . is anyone else getting beige flag vibes from David? Like I wouldn’t want to be married to him. . .
BurntheBookBurnerz:
Well, he wasn’t listening to her. She was saying she was unhappy and he ignored that.
CapoteParty:
None of this justifies killing him though.
StopDropAndTroll:
No shit, Sherlock.
DAPHNE:And so, the process began again. It was easier this time because David wasn’t the suspicious type. He was the kind of person who never read his receipt or checked his change because his world was full of kind people, and he always had enough to share.
RUTH (regretfully):What a lovely person.
DAPHNE:Yeah, well, don’t get too attached.
RUTH:How did you do it? Without being seen?
DAPHNE:I’d sneak out of bed before dawn. That’s a woman’s time, really, when she can do what she wants in a sleeping house. I’d crush up the pills and put them in the cottage cheese because it was the one breakfast item my kids would never touch. By the time David woke up there was a beautiful breakfast in his sunny kitchen.
RUTH:What did you poison him with?
DAPHNE:Dexylchromate, which is really the most loving way you can poison someone. It doesn’t burn the stomach or make you vomit over and over. Instead it goes straight for the brain, making you exhausted and weak. It’s really the same as getting old, just on a much faster schedule. David didn’t know it, but he was on my timeline now.
RUTH:Poor David.
DAPHNE:All right, you’ve made your feelings clear about David. And look, I tried to be the sweetest wife possible once the poisoning started. It wasn’t hard because from the moment I had my plan, I felt like my old self. The danger of being caught, the knowledge that I had a secret, the power I felt over my husband, it electrified me. And on the first day he complained about exhaustion, I helped him up the stairs before tenderly tucking him into his death bed.
On the fourth day we called the doctor. David was insistent and I knew that people would eventually ask questions if we didn’t have him examined. But I still felt a surge of adrenaline when the doorbell rang, and I tried to breathe deeply. I needed to look concerned about David but not like I had something to hide. I needed to control this situation, to keep the doctor unworried while reassuring David that he was getting the help he needed. But my mind was full of nasty visions: the doctor, standing up from examining David and pointing a single accusing finger at me. David turning and scowling at me, his eyes dark with hatred. My children watching me being handcuffed and thrown in the back of a police car.
This was the gamble. It was my riskiest murder yet, because this time there was no life-threatening situation and no terminally ill husband. I was killing a perfectly healthy man who posed no real threat to me (unless you can be bored to death). But when I opened the door, my shoulders sagged with relief. Dr. Penney was tall and gangly, and his Adam’s apple seemed to bob uncontrollably. His ears stuck out and he had the cowlicked hair of a little boy. He seemed terrified to have been called out and was clutching his doctor’s bag with the same fervor as a kid with a teddy bear.
“Hello,” he coughed out.
“Please come inside.” I gestured and he followed me in, stumbling on the doorframe. He apologized and I had to stop myself from smiling, my confidence growing by the second.
“Are you from here?” I asked as we began the long climb to the bedroom.
“Ye-yes,” he said hesitantly. “Of course I went away for school. But I’ve just finished.” Just finished. It was music to my ears. A green doctor with no self-confidence.
“Who was the doctor before?” I asked.
“My father,” he admitted. “But he died a few months ago and the people, they need a doctor. . .so I guess that’s me.” Even he didn’t sound convinced by the prospect.
“Well, we’re glad you could come see us,” I said, making sure my voice sounded grave and low, even though I felt like skipping down the hall. I pushed the door open and gestured the doctor into our bedroom. My husband was lying in bed, his head pressed against the pillows as if a great weight was pushing him down, leaving him unable to move.
“So, what seems to be the problem, Mr. Priestly?” Dr. Penney asked.
“David, please,” he mumbled. “I’ve just felt so run down recently. Every day, I hope I’ll wake up having turned the corner but then I spend the day in bed, barely able to keep my eyes open.” His voice had a pleading, frantic quality. My husband was begging this man to understand, to fix him.
“Do you have any other symptoms?” the doctor asked as he fumbled with a blood pressure cuff. He was like a magician struggling to pull off a new trick.