I knew that my decision to kill her was the right one. She made me aware of this all the time. You see, I might have changed my mind. I probably would have, I would have given her mercy. I’m no killer, really I’m not. Clarissa, though? She’s a killer through and through.
She never left me alone. She never showed me mercy. She was tactful and calculated in her cruelty as well. She would ridicule me at home constantly, and then dig at me in public and in front of our friends. Then, out of nowhere, she would let it drop. She’d leave me alone for days at at time, sometimes weeks, without saying anything about my Allen T. Watts impression. She always knew just how long to wait to make me think that she had actually forgotten about it or had gotten her fill. Then, killer she was, she would strike again, at an unexpected time and in an unexpected place.
We were out to dinner with friends, a group of eight. A nice restaurant, upscale. I won’t mention the name of the restaurant in this note because I don’t want them to have any bad press over what I did. It really wasn’t their fault. My meal there was just one day in long line of awful ones. It was there, however, that she struck next.
“Oh, you mean I haven’t told you yet about my husbands Hollywood career? He thinks he’s Allen T. Watts, you know.”
Laughter surrounded me.
“Yes, one time at home I caught him practicing his impression in the mirror. Why don’t you show everyone your little imitation, dear? It’s…cute.”
Laughter again. In my ears. In my head. Permeating and poisoning my veins.
“So tell us, what’s your next big picture going to be, Mr. Watts?”
Laughter. I felt sickened inside. It didn’t escape my notice that suddenly, in the company of others, she could say his name correctly.
“Yeah, not just impressions either. He practices his looks too. He slicks his hair back with water and pretends to be a mobster. Like a child playing dress-up.”
Laughter overwhelmed me until the hellish meal concluded.
The next morning, I set out to buy a gun. I selected the one that I thought most practical, a nice little pistol, instead of the submachine gun I would have preferred. The man at the counter asked me for my name to fill out the purchase paperwork. I told him it was Allen T. Watts.
The cashier looked up in amazement, surprise in his eyes. He recognized the name. With my hair slicked back and my glasses at home on my nightstand, I could very well pass for him. Still, the cashier asked me in an unsure voice:
“You mean, the real Allen T. Watts?”
I scowled at him. “That’s what I said, what are you deaf? You heard me right, ya miserable mug. So just fill those out, see? Fill ‘em out and I’ll be on my way outta this dump.”
He asked me for my address, which only made me scowl deeper. “Why? You got a crush on me or somethin’? You some kind of a gongoozler or something? My address is Hollywood, get me? Don’t worry about where I live.”
When I returned home, I had my gun.
I started to plan things out very carefully. I would need to make it look like a suicide. I would do it at home. More than that, I would do it in our bedroom. It would be the only satisfactory thing I’ve done in there in years.
To ensure my success, I decided to take no risks. When I did it, I wasn’t even going to turn on a light to aim, wouldn’t do anything to clue her off as to what was about to happen. I would just wait until a night of a full moon, when the light filtering between the slats of our Venetian blinds would be enough to see by. Once her hideous, gargoyle face was illuminated, I would blow it away. Pull the trigger, just a little easy squeeze and BAM! My life is forever changed. Improved.
After her stupid smile is wiped away for good, I would wipe my prints off of the gun and stuff it into her hand. Then, as they would expect a shocked and bereaved husband to do, I would call the police. Indeed, my whole plan was coming together. I didn’t think that there was a single thing that could stop it now. That is, until our dinner with friends a few days later…
*****
“Sweetheart? Erm, I mean, Mr. Watts, would you mind passing the butter. That is, if you’re not too busy memorizing lines, of course.”
Everyone laughed at me, which was becoming the norm. Then one of our friends, well, not my friend anymore but my wife’s, dropped a bombshell on me.
After my wife asked ‘Allen T. Watts’ to pass the rolls and the water pitcher, and after inquiring if I had held up any banks that morning, her friend wiped tears of laughter from his eyes and boldly turned to me saying:
“Why, that reminds me! Did you know that he’s going to be here next week? In town, I mean.”
The sniggers and chortles died away. I sat up straight, electricity pulsating up and down my spinal column. “Who is?” I asked quietly.
“Why, him!” Came the quick response, “That guy you like. Allen T. Watts. He’s in town to speak at the Shriner’s convention.”
I was stunned. Speechless. Her friend pressed on:
“You know, my grandfather was a Shriner. I should be able to get you in if you’d like to meet him.”
Those words brought a distant, unfamiliar sensation back into my chest. I think it was happiness. Maybe even excitement. The feeling couldn’t even be dulled when my wife, that bitch, decided to tell the whole table that she was sure that Allen T. Watts would want to see me, too. That he may be entertained by “the poor imitation of a talentless hack”.
I allowed her words to roll right off of my back. It didn’t matter. This was fate. This was destiny. This was the chance to make sure I got it all right. Soon enough, I would get to meet the real Allen T. Watts. And he would help me become the real me. The killer inside.
Add comment
Comments