- Jack Vettriano
(FCA = Fiction Class Assignment)
This is another story I wrote for my ENG154 Fiction Class. I was to take the same dramatic scene and tell it in four different points of view: first person, limited omniscient, omniscient and objective. I failed royally in objective, and I know I could have done better, but I'm okay with my grade. I think. Crap, now I'm thinking of resubmitting that. Ay! This is my favourite version: first-person POV. It was my teacher's favourite too. Probably because I did this one first and just... changed stuff for the other POVs. I should have spent more time adding details to the other versions.
In any case, here it is, re-edited with the prof's suggestions for your reading pleasure:
A Murder but not a Crime
I began wondering if this was the right address at all and a part of me hoped that it wasn't. I took out the crumpled piece of paper out of my coat pocket as I walked tentatively down the hallway. The wood on the walls and carpet beneath my pumps gave the hall a musky odour: neither unpleasant nor bad, but strangely familiar. I scanned the dark brown doors and their golden plastic numbers, searching for apartment 39 as my paper indicated. I hoped I was wrong about this, but then, there it was: apartment 39. My hand began to shake as I returned the paper to my pocket. My stomach turned and my ears tingled when a muffled sound came from behind the door.
I knew someone was inside, but I wanted to see if I could recognize any voices. I pressed my hands and ear against the wall but all I could hear were more muffled sounds and the occasional squeal. I bet that was her. Goddamn whore. My blood was beginning to boil and I could feel my face become flushed. My heart was pounding in my chest at a thousand beats per minute. I grabbed my purse and ripped the zipper open. I took my shaking hand and dug it into my belongings. My fingers fumbled through them and found the one cold, heavy item they were looking for. It fit in my hand perfectly. I grasped its handle tightly and ran one finger along the trigger.
I closed my eyes. I couldn't believe he'd do this to me. I let out a grunt, dropped the gun out of my hand back into my purse, and collapsed to the ground. I sat with my back to the door. My skirt moved up as I bent my knees. I rested my elbows on them and I dug my face between my arms to cry.
I knew he was doing this. I knew it. I never thought he would. But who ever thinks their spouse will cheat on them? Whatever happened to the vows we made at our wedding? I loved him so much. Didn't he love me too? Even at this moment I still loved him. I wouldn't stop until the day I died. Where did we go wrong? Did I do something wrong? I wished he could understand. I wished he could understand me. I wished he would have talked to me. And why her? Why did it have to be that slutty little bitch, of all people? She knew he was married. She knew ME. We spoke at the Christmas party. She was a slut then, too. I saw the way they looked at each other. I sensed something. God, how long have they been doing this? How many times has he touched me with the same hands he touched her? How many times? Those hands, his hands, on her, on me...
The thought was unbearable. My gut ached; it was like someone had punched me. Another loud squeal came from the apartment. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to imagine what was going on. I did not succeed. My face was covered in streaks of salty water and I suspected that my makeup had leaked down from my eyes. I rubbed the watery, dark, ink-like substance off my face with my hand. I grabbed my purse and stood back up with the help of the wall. Once I regained my balance, I heard them again, louder. He was laughing and she was squealing. She moaned. I felt so flushed and yet I got Goosebumps from hearing this. I was cold and hot and clammy at the same time; I felt like I had a fever.
I took out the key to the apartment from my purse. I had felt guilty for going through his belongings and for getting the key duplicated, but I had not recognized the key, I knew something had been wrong and I refused to just let it go. It was his fault anyway. He had taken things too far. I wouldn't have had to go through all this trouble to find them if he'd just been faithful. Seven years of marriage must have meant nothing to him, but I'd show him how much it meant to me!
I took a quick, deep breath and shoved the key into the keyhole. She moaned again, just at that moment, as if it was the key that was giving her pleasure. I let go of the key, shocked and disgusted. I wanted to throw up. Furious, I took hold of the key again and twisted it. The lock clicked and I swung the door open so hard that it banged against the wall. There was no turning back now. I charged into the apartment in search of my husband and his slut.
I heard them, so they weren't hard to find. Apparently they didn't notice the noise the door made since they were still going at it. I began crying profusely.
"Jason!" I shouted. Immediately, he jumped off her and covered himself. She pulled the sheets to cover her tiny tits as well.
"Oh my god! What the hell are you doing here?"
"You're asking me? You bastard..."
"Wait, please, honey."
"Shut up," I told him. I pulled out the gun from my purse and both fornicators' eyes widened in horror. The little slut screamed and my husband put his hands in front of him, pleading me to stop. I wouldn't.
"Don't do this, baby. You don't... you don't know what you're doing. You're overreacting. Please! Please!" he cried.
I took the safety off.
"I'm sorry. Please! Can't we talk about this first?" he continued.
"Talk? You want to talk? NOW you want to talk?"
"Yes, goddamn it!" He began to cry.
"So it takes my shoving a gun in your face to get you to talk to me. I should have tried this sooner," I replied.
"Don't do this. Please. Let's talk. Let's just... we can figure this out."
"No, we can't..."
"Please," whispered the skinny skank. I aimed the firearm at her and she screamed and ducked under the sheet. He moved closer and in front of her to protect her. This infuriated me. He was protecting her? I was his wife. I WAS HIS WIFE! How could he do this? How could he?! Why was he still touching her? This was his fault. It was all his fault! And that bitch...
"You deserve each other."
BANG! BANG! Twice I shot that stupid little twat. Blood sprayed on the wall and bed. My husband turned to face his whore. He put his hand on her arm and leaned over her.
BANG! BANG! I shot him too. I walked closer, feeling blood rush through me like I'd never felt it rush through me before. I felt so powerful. I felt so in control. He lay across her lap.
"I hate you," I said to him aloud. "I absolutely fucking hate you." I fired two more shots into him. I dropped the gun and, again, I fell to the floor. I sat with my back pressed against the wall, unable to cry, unable to move, unable to think. I simply sat there, on the floor of my husband's mistress' bedroom, until the police arrived.
Mark: 8.6/10 for all four versions. Would have been higher if it was just this version, I bet. :P
While I was writing this, I had the "Cell Block Tango" from Chicago stuck in my head. "He had it coming." The title is a reference to the song as well.