Don't Wait Up

Short story + Comic design collaboration = A woman gets more than she bargained for when seeking revenge on her cheating husband.

I had the distinct pleasure of collaborating with one of Substack’s finest comic artists on this story. When the literary and visual arts collide, sometimes, it’s pure magic. That’s how I feel about this piece. I loved writing this story, and working with Quinn Leary to pump visual fairy dust into it was so damn sweet. Quinn is a talented perfectionist, a true professional, and worked hard to bring a vision to life that we both believed in. We hope you enjoy!

I heard a faint beep, and the click of a keycard registering at the lock. I figured they must have had a hell of a time. Their laughter reverberated down the hall long before they arrived at the room. The woman sauntered in, giggling, kicked off her heels, then strode across the low-pile carpet and opened the mini fridge. I heard the shrill squeak of styrofoam when she placed it inside, probably leftovers from dinner. It smelled like Mexican. Enchiladas maybe, or Chile Relleno. That was Tom’s favorite, the bastard.

I watched their feet move closer until they were standing in front of one another. Tom’s size thirteens were still on. Fucking clown shoes. The woman rose to her tippy toes and I could hear their lips smacking against one another’s. Heat rose in my face to the point I thought my head might pop like one of those cartoon thermometers. I reached for the kitchen knife I had brought from home, and held it over my heart, hands trembling. This was it. This was my moment.

I tried moving my legs and arms, stretching, preparing for the physical undertaking ahead. Tom was a big guy. If I didn’t do this exactly as planned, precisely as I had practiced, things would go south for me, fast. My joints ached as I moved them back and forth. I had been hiding beneath this god forsaken bed for hours.

Clothes rained onto the floor where, in my head, I had planned to slide out and pounce on him, plunging my blade through his thick neck. The woman’s feet levitated from the floor and then disappeared. She giggled more, the tramp, then the bed caved to the point of just grazing the tip of my nose when he threw her on top of it. Tom’s feet disappeared, one by one, as he mounted the mattress.

I noticed the heat had left my face. I was so angry a moment ago, but I noticed now, I was feeling something different. My vision blurred and tears ran down both sides of my face as the bed creaked above me. I left the knife on my chest and wiped my tears away. I hated myself for crying.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was the bastard that was supposed to pay today. Pay for the countless nights of phoney meetings, just too far out of town to come home for the night. This scenario had played out in my head countless times. I knew where to stick the knife, the precise angle, what I would say to the bitch as she ran screaming out the door, mascara running and tits flopping down the hall, pleading for housekeeping to save her life. And I knew this would be the end of the line for me. He would be dead, and I would go to prison, finally free of his lies.

The tears were unstoppable now. I thought about Ryan and Hannah, and what this would do to them. I told myself they would be fine. My sister would take them in. She was strong. She didn’t let men walk all over her, lie to her, treat her like a used sack. She had a good husband. They would care for the kids. Plus, the kids were nearly through high school. They had their own lives now. They didn’t need me anymore, and they surely didn’t need their lying father.

I grabbed the knife from my chest and gripped it tight as I could. If I wanted to do this right, I couldn’t let this knife get out of my hands. But the knife shook so much, I could hardly maintain my grip. I dropped it on the floor beside me and the handled thudded against the carpet. I froze, wondering if they might have heard, but the bed kept on swaying and creaking.

I felt around for the knife at my side, and once I got my hand on it, I couldn’t pick it up. The sanity pan in my mind’s balance scale plummeted, and I realized I didn’t recognize the woman I had become. Was I really going to go through with this? Was I going to throw my life away for this piece of shit?

I cupped my hands over my mouth to stifle the cries beckoning at my quivering lips. This wasn’t me. I wasn’t a murderer. I was a mother. I was head of the PTA, for God’s sake. My mind did a complete backflip, and I began brainstorming how I could most quickly get out of this shitty motel room. Finally, all the weight of the past few weeks, all the preparation, all the espionage, and thinking I would grow old in prison, it all floated away.

The woman began panting heavily, then screamed passionately.

Fuck, I should not be hearing this. Why did I do this to myself?

Suddenly, she stopped mid scream. Guttural smacks and clicks came from deep within her throat, and the smooth sway of the bed was replaced by feverish shaking and thumping on the mattress.

I tried to process what could be happening to her. Was she having a heart attack? No, Tom wasn’t that good, the bastard.

Finally, the shaking stopped. The room fell quiet and I could hear my blood pumping, so loud I feared they might hear it, too. The bed shifted as someone slid across, then the woman’s body flopped to the floor. She laid next to me, staring wide eyed. The silhouette of fat purple fingers painted her neck. Something I had never thought about before was that death could look fresh. Although she wasn’t breathing, there was a faint light still living somewhere within her. I imagined if someone resuscitated her quick, she might make it.

Two bare, size thirteens pounded the floor on either side of her body, and I recoiled, my brain finally catching up with the events. Tom dropped to his knees, and for a moment, I thought he might bend all the way down and crane his head beneath the bed to say hello. But he didn’t. He knocked the woman’s clutch from the nightstand onto the floor, sending its contents flying.

Tom grabbed a tube of lipstick. He pinched the woman’s chin between his fingers, puckering her lips, and delicately applied the bright red lipstick with perfect precision. He then tidied up her eye shadow, wiping a wayward smudge from the side of her face with his pinkie. Then Tom stood and grabbed her by the ankles.

I watched as her body slid across the floor and into the bathroom. A captive audience to this one man show that I feared may have been a rerun. I swear her dead eyes somehow never left mine, locked on, like she was still somewhere in there, begging for me to jump in with my kitchen knife and carry out my plan. Then the bathroom door slammed shut.

Maybe I should run, I thought. Now. Straight out the door. But what if he returned right as I slid out from under the bed? I didn’t want to end up like her. Then I thought about Ryan and Hannah. They don’t know what he is. Shit, I don’t know what he is. He could hurt them, too. But he wouldn’t. Would he?

I let out a deep breath and resolved to stay put. I would wait until morning if I had to. Until he left to dispose of the body. Whatever he did, whatever else I saw, here, in this room, tonight, I had to wait it out. I had to get home to my babies.