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Pinching the bridge of his nose, Stan snatched his keys from the coffee table and stuffed them into his pocket. “I’m tired of it, okay? Just stop yelling at me! I’m doing the best I can, and I’m not spending extra money on a-”
“You can’t lie to me! I’ve seen the transactions from your bank account. Stop spending money on stupid shit and we’ll finally be able to afford the water bill!”
“Why don’t you get a job, Wendy?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he was in for trouble.
“Oh! Why don’t I get a job? Yeah, how am I gonna get there? With the car that your friend Kenny fucking totaled last year? Or, hmm, let me think. Maybe I could walk!” she shrieked, standing up. “Just kidding! Guess I can’t, because we live in a shitty apartment in the middle of fucking nowhere!” Wendy was hysterical at this point. “Wait wait wait… I think I get what you’re referring to! You want me to whore myself out on OnlyFans? Is that it? Well, I’ll fucking do it if you think that’s all I’m worth.”
It took Stan an hour and a half to calm her down, and by then, he was late for work. Sparky rubbed against his legs as he unlocked the door, pouting and whimpering.
Stan leaned down, petting him and ruffling his fur. Sparky never acted like this. “What’s wrong, boy?”
He licked Stan’s fingers and, when he opened the door, tried to squeeze his body through the crack. Stan held him back to prevent him from escaping.
He wondered why Sparky was acting so strange. Maybe he didn’t like all of the yelling? “I’m sorry boy, I gotta go to work,” he whispered. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Promise. I love you, buddy.”
-
Stan returned home later that day, exasperated and worn from his job in retail, stale shirt sticking to his greasy chest. He made the dumb mistake of not going to college or trade school as a kid, and was now manager at a pizza place, being one of two adults actually working there. Despite the promotion, he got no raise or compensation for it. Only lip from teenagers.
The absence of doggy toenails clipping against the floor to greet him was strange. But even stranger was the fact that his nostrils and lungs were flooded with the sharp, repulsive scent of something burning. He fled to the kitchen and caught sight of smoke rising from the oven. With a cough, Stan opened it, and a puff of smoky, nauseating air came up to meet him. His nostrils burned. He stepped away from the oven, coughing again and waving his hand out in front of him. “Wendy!” he shouted, hoping she was somewhere nearby. “You gotta keep an eye on the oven! Something’s burning!”
He felt a presence in the hallway behind him. Covering his mouth, he glanced back at the oven and stumbled backwards, gripping the wall for support. Shiny, burnt matted hair laid atop the smoking lump of flesh. On the right side was a set of closed eyes and a sad, lopsided mouth with… Stan teared up… two teeth sticking out from the bottom.
Stan whirled around, tears streaming from his eyes and choking back sobs. “You.. you fucking…?”
“I did! And I listened to him whimper as he tried to get out, too!” she exclaimed, smoke filling the area around them. Wendy coughed once, and Stan noticed that her own face was bleary and wet, too. But she was smiling- a wide, toothy smile that chilled him to the core. The nerves in his hands went cold, fingers clamping up. “Isn’t that just so sad? Imagine, poor little Sparky in that oven, all alone, feeling the heat underneath him rise, and rise, and intensify, his little doggy tongue sticking out as he panted and whimpered, thinking about you, hoping you’d come home to get him out…”
Stan cried harder, his fists balled up over his eyes. He couldn’t stop coughing. But he did imagine what went down as Wendy spoke, and he knew he had to get her under control, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it, how he would feel if he was locked in an oven, sweat dripping down his face and neck, helpless and scared for his life…
There was no doubt in his mind that Sparky didn’t trust Wendy. So when did the abuse start, and how had Stan managed to ignore it?
More than anything, he wished he could go back. It didn’t matter when. Five years, two months, a week, ten hours. If he could, he’d get Sparky, save him and take him far away from this place, this crazy fucking woman. But he was dead now. Stan failed, not only as an owner, but as a person..
Wendy was screaming. He wasn’t sure what he was saying because he was still crying, stuck in his own mind with smoke filling his lungs as he thought about Sparky’s dead, lifeless body, burnt to a crisp in a scenario where everything could’ve been avoided.
“I trapped him! Just like you trapped me in this shitty relationship!” she yelled, pushing him to the ground. “I fucking hate you and your stupid dog. I can’t believe I considered marrying you. You’re fucking worthless!” Wendy said through a coughing fit.
Stan couldn’t take it anymore. His best friend was dead, all because of something this bitch did, and now this bitch had him on the floor, thinking she could dominate and push him around, belittle him, and blame him for her own shortcomings. Well, he wasn’t going to let that happen anymore. Something snapped inside him, like a wire that had undergone too much tension, a threadbare string, frayed and at the end of its lifespan.
“Bitch!” he blared, reaching up and shoving her off. Caught off guard, Stan managed to force her to the ground. He wasn’t sure where to go from there, so he lifted her head up and repeatedly bashed it backwards into the kitchen tile, only inches away from Sparky’s smoking body.
He left her on the ground once she was confidently passed out. Stan opened the windows to let some of the smoke out. He turned the oven off, but left the oven door open. He would figure out what to do with Sparky’s body later. For now, he had to handle the situation with Wendy. Stan turned back to her, contemplating his options. He could call the police, but one, how would he explain his girlfriend passed out on the floor (or the blood leaking from her skull?), and two, what if she recovered and put the blame on him for killing Sparky? If she was crazy enough to throw Sparky in the oven, she was crazy enough to lie in court. Plus, he was a man. There was no doubt the jury and judge would take her side.
So the most logical option was to kill her. It was risky, but this was the only way he could (possibly) get out of this mess without going to jail.
He approached her again, placing his hand on her heart. Wendy stirred, but not much- and her heart was still beating. Breathing heavily, he moved up and placed his hands around her throat.
Then squeezed.
It took a lot of effort, but after twisting her neck to the side, he felt something crack.
Stan had enough sense to grab two trash bags and cover the top and bottom halves of her body with them. He tied the bags together in the middle, praying it would work. He decided to encase her in a few extra layers. Just in case.
Next came Sparky. Stan put a kitchen glove on his left hand and, with his right hand, used a spatula to pry his sticky body from the oven rack. Using the gloved hand, he deposited the body into another garbage bag, weeping. Guilt washed over him as he did this- not just for Sparky, but for Wendy, too. She was right, after all. They were unhappy, living in the middle of nowhere, struggling to pay bills.
I love you, boy. I always will. I’m so sorry… he thought, thrusting the spatula into the sink and the kitchen glove onto the counter, tying the bag up and refusing to look at the dead body. You were a good boy. You didn’t deserve this. His heart swelled with regret as he placed the bag on the ground.
Stan had no shovel. Unsure of what to do with the bags now, he dug in his back pocket and grabbed his smartphone.
Stan: hey
Stan: in a bit of an emergency. you free? need some help. if you’re busy or have other people around it can wait.
He looked down at the garbage bags again.
“Hey Sparky… how would you feel about one final walk?” Stan said aloud. He let out a strained laugh, picking the garbage bag up. Another round of tears slipped down his face. He pressed the hot trash bag into the side of his face and sobbed into it.
No more walks. No more fetch. No more Sparky on his lap while he played video games, and no more doggy toenails clipping through the hallway.