Ben Newell

Hung

Bending over the bathroom sink, Harold Miley splashed cold water on his face. He had vomited in the hall. But that could wait. Call 911, he told himself. Not that this was an emergency.

Becky was dead. Paramedics couldn’t do a thing for her. Except cut her down, he thought. Or perhaps the police would do that . . .  

The house would soon be packed with people. Beat cops. Detectives. Crime scene technicians. Medical Examiner. The detectives would ask him questions. Endless questions. Harold was in for a long night, long and emotionally draining. 

Having wiped his face with a towel, he deliberately avoided his haggard reflection in the mirror. Don’t go back in there, he thought. You don’t want to see her again. Once is enough. Make the call and wait for the cavalry. 

Harold exited the bathroom and stood in the hall just outside the master bedroom. He frowned at his phone. But he didn’t call. He wasn’t ready for the circus. Not yet. Not with so many unanswered questions throttling his psyche. 

Steeling himself, he reentered the bedroom and made a beeline for the window. He raised the miniblinds, unlocked the window, pushed it up. Mild night air rushed into the room, helping to lessen the awful stench. Becky’s bowels had evacuated when her neck snapped . . .  

Face twisted with anguish, Harold looked for a suicide note. He found it atop the nightstand on his wife’s side of the bed. She had used a blue ballpoint pen and a single sheet of yellow legal paper. Becky’s cursive script filled the entire page. It amounted to a confession and apology. The phrases “bad wife” and “selfish person” appeared repeatedly but there was no mention of her lover’s identity. 

Whoever the guy is, Harold thought, he’s in for one hell of a shock. He almost felt sorry for the bastard. Almost. 

Harold looked at the overturned chair beneath Becky’s dangling bare feet. It was an old straight-back chair she had gotten for a song at the flea market. She had sanded and painted the piece before relegating it to the laundry room. 

Harold returned the note to the nightstand, placing it beside Becky’s phone which he combed assiduously. Such a breach of his wife’s privacy had been all but impossible until now; she had guarded her phone with her life, never letting the damnable thing out of her sight . . . 

The vulgar text messages from an unfamiliar number—a burner, Harold reasoned, if the guy was married—were bad enough. 

But these were nothing compared to the photos. 

Dick pics. 

And the guy was huge.

No doubt, he had shown Becky a very good time. Harold could almost forgive her. Almost. She was entitled to pleasure, entitled to a level of satisfaction and fulfillment which he had been unable to provide with his comparatively diminutive member. 

Still, vows were vows . . . 

Harold studied her photos in search of a face but came up empty. He decided to dial the number. He wanted to hear the sonofabitch’s voice. He wanted to tell him that the affair was over, that Becky had gone off the deep end and killed herself, that he hoped the sorry motherfucker was happy. 

“Hey,” somebody picked up after the third ring. 

A male voice. Unmistakably familiar. 

Harold hung up on his next-door neighbor. 

***

Chuck was piddling in his garage. 

Good, Harold thought. He didn’t want to ring the doorbell. Last thing he wanted was an encounter with Chuck’s wife and/or kids. He didn’t want to be reminded that his neighbor was a husband and father. It would be easier that way . . . 

After taking the photo with Becky’s phone, Harold had retrieved the .32 from his nightstand drawer. The compact handgun was for home protection. He had tried to teach Becky how to use it, but she showed no interest. “Guns are like snakes,” she had told him, “and I’m scared of both.” Now, phone in hand, gun tucked between his belt and lower back, he crossed the small section of grass between the two houses and entered Chuck’s garage. 

His neighbor’s truck occupied half of the cavernous space. The other half was a makeshift workshop. Chuck was hunched over a table tinkering with an old-fashioned alarm clock. Restoring antique clocks was just one of the handyman’s side gigs. He also repaired fitness equipment and copy machines. A regular jack of all trades, Harold mused as he approached his neighbor who had yet to see him. 

“Chuck,” he stated bluntly. 

His neighbor jerked. “Jeez, man. You scared the hell out of me.” He put down the clock and wiped his grimy hands with a grimy towel. “What’s new, neighbor?” 

“Quite a lot, actually,” Harold said. “I want to show you something. Check this out . . .” 

Standing beside the table, he proffered Becky’s phone. Chuck regarded him strangely. 

“Go on,” Harold urged. “It won’t bite.” Then, “That’s right, asshole. Becky’s phone . . .” 

“Look, Harold, I don’t know what—” 

“You know Becky. My wife. Well, late wife . . .” 

Harold watched Chuck’s eyes, watched them fix on the photo of Becky hanging from the light fixture. The color drained from his neighbor’s face. He gasped audibly. 

The kitchen door swung open. Chuck’s freckle faced twelve-year-old daughter appeared. She was eating a Kraft single. “Dinner’s ready . . .” 

“Go back inside, Trish,” Chuck told her. 

“Mom said—” 

“Inside! Now!” 

No sooner had Trish shut the door than Harold pulled his piece. 

“Now wait a minute.” Chuck raised his hands. “Just calm down. Don’t do something—” 

“You fucked my wife!”

Chuck started to say something about calling 911 when the bullet ripped into his throat. He tried to plug the wound with his fingers. Gagging and sputtering, blood oozed between them. The second round bored into his gut, silencing him forever. He lay sprawled, leaking and still, on the concrete. 

Towering over his dead neighbor, Harold eyed a pair of heavy-duty hedge shears hanging on the wall. He walked over, grabbed the tool, and returned to Chuck. It was a gruesome affair, severing his neighbor’s cock, gruesome yet immensely satisfying. Blood was all over the place. The garage looked like a slaughter house. 

Harold sat on the smooth concrete with his back against the wall, torn between waiting for the police and blowing his brains out. 

Sirens cut the night.