Rowan's Revenge

It wouldn’t be just enough to kill him, no. She really wanted him to suffer first.

Rowan paced the living room several times as she worried her thumb nail with her teeth. She still couldn’t believe any of it.

But how was she going to handle it? Now, that was the question.

Rowan stopped biting her nail and pulled back the bay window curtains and watched the snowstorm brewing outside. Daylight had almost been leached from the sky. Snow was piling up.

She sighed. It had been a final, desperate act, snooping in Dan’s laptop, she knew.

Still, Rowan had held out hope it was her writer’s imagination that had her thinking he was cheating….

If only she had been right.

Dan had joined a gym several weeks ago, had taken to working late most nights and they hadn’t had sex in near a month.

Clues, every single one!

The emails to his mistress explicitly detailed what he’d been doing while she’d been home.

She walked to the kitchen now. Beyond the window over the sink, she watched heavy winds make drifts in the driveway. Past years of marriage raced through her mind with each gust - weddings, parties, movie nights, making love.

It now all seemed somehow tainted. Dan’s absolute betrayal churned like acid in her gut. She made tight fists and pictured his nose breaking beneath them. She had to calm down and think straight. She did the few breakfast dishes on the counter. It felt normal almost, routine, or she convinced herself anyway.

Her eyes cut from sink to falling snow; a huge cyclone of white whipped and twirled across the yard.

An hour later, bundled up and ready to face the elements, she traded the warmth of inside for the below zero outside. She grabbed a shovel from the porch.

As she took her time clearing the drive of drifts, the cold air kept her mind awake, focused, which was what she needed, what she planned, though a part of her, a huge part of her, wanted to just go to bed, pull the covers up over her head and die of depression there.

Hadn’t she been the good dutiful wife? She had loved, honoured and obeyed him throughout their decades long marriage. Supper, despite her hours of writing and constant deadlines, had always been on the table when he came home. And how many times had she entertained his friends at parties thrown in their home?
She’d been the perfect hostess.

And when he broke his leg last winter during that first day of their ski vacation, hadn’t they together made the best of a bad situation? They’d bonded over the two weeks at the Chalet, eating lots, playing cards, watching dreadful daytime tele, and talking and making love like they used to when they’d first dated.

Anger, pure and raw, again swept over her. She could almost believe she saw red. How could Dan just throw away all they had?

She imagined sinking one of her kitchen knives into his gut, watching the life seep from his eyes like daylight from a cold, frozen world.

He did own an old shotgun that belonged to his dad. She could shoot him right in his smug, lying, cheating face.

Or put a pillow over that face while he slept and smother the life out of him.

Ideas, like a river breaking up after a long freeze, churned madly through her mind.

Using her teeth, she pulled a mitten off, then fetched her phone from her jacket pocket. Dan had texted ten minutes ago looked like. He was on his way home.

Another mark against him. He hadn’t even bothered to call her. There used to be a time he’d call just to hear her voice.

As the snow fell, a smile broke across her face. She was a mystery writer, wasn’t she? What would be the perfect revenge for a cheating spouse?

Hurriedly, she shoveled off the three steps that led to the front stoop.

Inside, she grabbed the tea kettle and filled it up.
With porchlight off – wouldn’t do to have noisy neighbours watching - Rowan made several quick trips outside.

When she finished, she flipped the porchlight back on and admired her handiwork from behind the screen door. Ice now coated each step and shimmered darkly under the light’s glare. Snow flurries began to cover it, just as she planned.

Would Dan break an arm, a leg? More? Or maybe he’d break his neck. Or maybe he’d just lie there and freeze to death.

She was okay with whatever happened. She closed the front door.

When car headlights cut into the drive twenty minutes later, she thought only of revenge and how she truly was, serving it up cold.

The End