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The Sunset Murder

Burned to Pieces

By Calissa KirilenkoPublished 3 years ago 9 min read
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The Sunset Murder
Photo by Emily Hoehenrieder on Unsplash

I stood on the balcony overlooking the wild, blue waves crashing along the shore. The sky was starting to darken and it looked as though a storm was rolling in. I watched as families and couples made their way from the beach and back towards the hotel for dinner. Trying to escape the weather before it downpoured on their heads. The air was especially warm and sticky for 5 pm, and I could still feel the sweat on my back from lugging all my bags up to the room, but I didn’t mind because I was in Tulum, Mexico and I couldn’t think of a better way to start spending $20,000.

I needed a vacation, desperately. I had spent the last five years dreaming about this moment. When I could finally stand alone on a tropical beach, far away from him and the life I used to know. It was freedom from a jail sentence I had never earned. The life insurance cheque came two weeks ago, bringing with it the exact validation necessary to book a flight and get the hell out of there, away from anything that reminded me of him. Never again would I have to attend a dinner party I didn’t want to or wear a dress I couldn’t breathe in. Most importantly, I would never have to come home to his drunken rage that lingered when he was alone with a scotch and a baseball game that seemed to drag on forever. The price was always a bloody fist and a night of Tylenol and vodka to numb out both the physical and mental pain he caused.

I shuddered at the thought of what my life used to be. Turning away from the beach, I walked into my room to begin unpacking. Carefully, I unfolded my bathing-suits and sundresses into the dresser that also held a flatscreen TV, taking my time to empty each bag. I had splurged on a new sundress and sandals for the trip from some expensive British designer and couldn’t wait to spend the whole day tomorrow lying in the sun reading Agatha Christie novels. I zipped up the last bag and began to move it into the closet when my foot coincided with the dresser, knocking me to the ground.

“Damnit!” I cursed, holding my foot close to inspect the damage. Aside from some redness and what seemed to be the beginning of a bruise, all was clear. I began to get back up when something caught my eye. What appeared to be a little black book, wedged underneath the dresser, almost completely out of sight. Carefully I pulled it out from its place and turned it over. There was no name or engravings, so I opened the first page.

March 17

I did it. I bought the gun. After weeks of preparing, contemplating, back and forth conversations with myself, I made the final purchase. Tomorrow I will finally be a free woman. No more dealing with his abusive language, no more bruises from nights when he comes home too late and too drunk, and just feels like hitting someone, even his own wife. Tomorrow night the monster will be dead. This is something I have thought about for a long time, one year into the marriage when he began to toss me around, I knew I had to leave. I tried many times, but he always found a way to stop me. This is the only answer. The only way out. And no one will ever know. It’s the perfect murder. A sunset boat ride, just the two of us. A storm will roll in and I’ll say we tried to make it back to shore, but he was knocked off-board and couldn’t be saved. I will play the grieving widow perfectly. Mourning for many months, unable to move on, until one day I finally do. I never thought I was capable of murder. Does anyone? I guess you only find out when it’s the only way out.

I turn the page to see if there’s more, but it’s empty. Quickly skimming through the rest of the book, but every single page is blank except for the first. Putting the book down, I lean back against the edge of the bed in shock. Today is March 18.

A million thoughts race through my mind as I hold the book in my hand. There’s no year. This book could have been lodged under the dresser for months, years even. It could be someone’s idea of a joke or just a story they were writing. There’s no possible way that whoever wrote this was planning to actually murder their husband and today of all days. It couldn’t be possible. It was too strange. I put the book back under the dresser and stood up to go and get ready for dinner.

But what if it is real? My mind, unable to escape what I have just seen. What if, right now, there’s a woman setting-out to sail with her husband, planning to murder him. I look outside and see the clouds, thick and dark, ready to unleash on the world below them. Frustrated, I walk over to the mini bar, making myself a gin and tonic to calm the nerves. My hands have begun to shake, and my heart is racing. I stare at the little black book in the corner.

“Where did you come from?” I mutter to myself. How could someone plan to kill their husband and then be so bold as to write about it? This didn’t make sense. It was probably just a story someone made up to scare the 40-year-old women who happened to stay in the room next. I roll my eyes and pour myself another drink. I then wander over to the dresser and remove the book from its hiding place, opening it back up again to re-read the single page.

I bought the gun.

Tomorrow night the monster will be dead.

This is the only answer. The only way out….

I stare at the words and re-read them over and over again.

The only way out. My body vibrates from the gin and familiarity of their meaning. There’s no way whoever wrote this is making it up. Those are words that only a woman in the absolute worst of situations could write. They ring true, even today. I look down at the faded-line of where a ring used to sit on my dainty little finger. I might not have needed a gun and an elaborate plan to get away, but I could understand the dangerous thoughts this woman expressed. There were times I, myself, thought the same thing. How easy it would be to just, in one click, end it all. Finally, be free. There were days I drove past the Walmart in town and thought about what it would be like to go inside and purchase something that could possibly save me, protect me. But I never did, and maybe that was the difference between her and me. I found another way out.

The sun was close to setting now, and my stomach made a loud sound of hunger. I closed the little black book and finished my drink. The way I looked at it, there were two choices. The first was to pretend like the book didn’t exist. Stuff it back under the dresser, walk downstairs to dinner and act like nothing ever happened. The second was to turn it in. Call the police and say there’s a woman who is planning to kill her husband. I eye the phone out of the corner of my eye and immediately turn away.

Phone or dresser.

Dresser or phone.

My stomach growls again, breaking the tension, and I walk back over to the mini bar, fetching myself a bag of peanuts. This damn book is ruining my very-expensive vacation. Not how I imagined my first night in Mexico. I wanted to drink a Margarita and maybe flirt with a handsome stranger. Not decide whether or not some woman should be turned-in for killing her husband.

I lay down on the bed and let the warm sheets encompass me. I could fall asleep right now and never have to decide at all. How did I become tasked with this ultimate choice? There was a reason I never got picked for Jury duty. I turn on the TV for comfort, but the voice of a woman reporting the weather soon drowns into the background. I finish the bag of nuts and lay there staring at the ceiling. I think about an hour ago when I walked into this room, completely oblivious to anything else going on in the world, excited for the week that lay ahead of me. Then I think of Michael, the night I went to the hospital after he threw me against a wall and I broke three bones. The nurse didn't believe me when I told her I had fallen down the stairs, but instead of helping me, instead of calling the authorities, she simply said "okay" and looked the other way. My eyes burned into her back as she walked away from my bed in the hospital, leaving me alone with him. I prayed that she would turn around and change her mind, that she would come back, but she never did. It wasn't until three years later when I got the call that Michael had been in a car accident and hadn't made it, that I was finally set free.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t turn in the book. I get up off the bed to grab a lighter from the desk, then I pick up the book, tearing out the page. With one-simple flick, I let the flame meet the bottom corner of the page and watch as the cinders begin to erase any evidence of the words she once wrote. As the flame grows, I let the ashes fall to the ground, and in the background see a news report on the TV.

A blonde, twenty-something reporter stands in front of a marina, and beside her is a woman wrapped in a blanket, her hair soaking wet. She shivers in the wind from the storm.

“Live from the Ocean Front Marina in Tulum, where a man has just been announced missing after not returning with his wife from their sunset cruise. I am joined here by Isabella, the wife of Adam Rodriguez. The two spent the afternoon out on a sailboat, but when an unexpected storm came in, they were unable to safely make it back to shore. Isabella tried to save her husband when he was knocked overboard, but the storm provided too strong of winds for her to save them both.”

I stare at the TV in shock, then look down at the floor where a pile of ashes now lies. The truth of a story that will never be told.

fiction
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