Jordan and Angela Crawford had been married for twelve years and lived in Portland for ten. Jordan worked as a tax auditor while Angela thought it was best to stay at home with their two children. Jordan was a tall, dark haired man with large hands and a scar across his right cheek. He was attractive and rather ill mannered most of the time. Angela was a plump, short woman that had more facial hair than most men. She had fat thighs and when she walked beads of sweat would run down her neck and smell of copper. Jordan hated her. He knew at one point in his life that he loved her, but after they wed Angela became more familiar with a high calorie diet and gained weight faster than a fresh born St. Bernard. Jordan could hardly look at Angela, and when she talked he cringed at the sound of her shrill, fat voice. Jordan was thankful that they bought a house with an extra bedroom, as he mostly dwelled in his own space. Their children were not in the slightest bit interesting and he wished they’d never been born. He regretted those few drunken nights where he had forgotten how repulsive his wife was. His main escape was through his job and alcohol, but even that stirred Jordan into devastation. His drinking had increased through the years, from consuming one bottle of whiskey a week, to one bottle every two days.

Each morning, Jordan woke up from his whiskey-induced slumber and got ready for his day in silence. He shaved his already bare face and slicked his hair back with a special oil that apparently promotes healthy follicles. He put on his white shirt, black pants, and tie along with his socks and dull, boring shoes. He always tried to spend as much time in his own dwelling before going out to greet his family. He would walk into the living room and his life would crash upon him like a summer wave, each and every morning. He felt immense pain in his lower abdomen, pain that he was sure was from his despair not his chronic diverticulitis. His wife came up to him and kissed his cheek and handed him a plate of cold eggs, bacon, and burnt toast. He sat down at the table without a word and poured himself a cup of coffee. He always winced as he drank his wife’s terribly made coffee. She was a horrible cook and always served up watery, sad joe. After Jordan was finished choking the food down, he would leave his mess on the table and prepare to leave for work. Jordan’s days were long and in his mind, were progressively getting worse. Madness had swirled in Jordan’s head for as long as he could remember and the coldness in his heart increased with every word spoken out of his soft, bare lips.

Later that evening, Jordan arrived home from work. He drove into the garage and turned the car off. He sat there, wondering why his life had become so miserable. He had always thought his life would turn out better. His numbness to his family and job had become permanent. Jordan got out of the car and walked inside. Angela sat at the table alone, eating the dinner she had prepared. Jordan silently walked past her and into his room. He sat down immediately and poured himself a glass of whiskey. Angela waddled into his room after a few moments and began speaking.

“Jordan, are you hungry?” She asked in her plump voice.

“Do I look hungry?” Jordan snapped back.

“I-I just figured-“ Angela stammered

“Figured what?” Jordan interrupted his shaking wife.

“Nothing, Jordan.” She responded, her voice dropped.

Angela walked back into the kitchen and plopped down in her seat. Jordan hated her. He hated her with all of his heart. Later that night, Jordan had practically consumed an entire bottle of whiskey. He was rocking back and forth in his office chair, swaying to the sounds of the rain outside his window. Jordan managed to get up and shuffle through the house. The house was dark and silent, and Jordan was too drunk to remember where the furniture was placed. He somehow manages to get to the kitchen, where something catches his eye. In the midst of the lightning lashing through the window he sees it. A large butcher knife, hanging above the stove where Angela had washed and placed back on its appropriate hook. Jordan looked at it, noticed how sharp the edge was and how heavy the handle was. He began to smile, as he turned around to go back into his room. He stumbled back through the living room and proceeded to pass out after tripping over his chair.

The next morning Jordan woke with a raging headache and severe stomach ache. He only remembered the cool, sharp edge of the butcher knife. He stood up, showered and dressed for work. He walked into the kitchen where his wife was making breakfast. She looked at him and started to open her mouth to say something. But before she could speak, Jordan grabbed the knife and swung it across her throat, splitting her neck almost in two. She fell to the ground, choking and bleeding profusely. Jordan stepped over her and poured himself a cup of coffee, gulped it down and left the house for work.