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PART I- VILLAINS OR HEROES
1. Twenty-Two Husbands- The Widow
V.A.N.
Twenty-two husbands murdered by my hand.
A life I’ve chosen to withstand.
My life lives in silhouettes of black and white, with occasional frayed shadows of gray. Color has not been a part of my existence since the day my mother was murdered during my childhood.
The loss of my ability to perceive colors is only an inconvenience compared to someone being born without the capability to hear or an individual losing their voice. Even though I suffer this disadvantage, it is one I would prefer over any other ailment one might live with.
“You are unable to move due to the curare and opium you’ve been given. Your respiratory system should be shutting down shortly.” I glance around the room, taking in the decor and cataloging any items that spark potential ideas for my next home. I do not think I’ll keep this estate located in southern France. Too much difficulty involved with upkeep. The windows are long yet thin, reminding me of an archaic castle. Sunlight struggles to pass through the slits. The curtains are heavy and adorned with frilly material.
The staff were interested in their new maiden and had heard I had this condition. It brought me joy to entertain them by pointing at individual furniture pieces, inquiring about their colors. They would list off daffodil, daisy, wheat, and every other shade of yellow, including even piss. I am almost thankful for my minuscule disability, for it seems to not be at all disadvantageous on this estate.
I will provide the staff a highly generous payout, considering I am about to send their present employer to Hell. My condolences to them, but not to the scum who sits before me. Presently, Franklin is sitting across from me, utterly silent. What poor Franklin doesn’t know is I slipped a paralyzing agent into his breakfast, and I will now perform my ritual of burning his skin, then chopping him into tiny pieces so he may be disposed of in the nearest body of water. Just as my other twenty-two husbands have been.
Before I execute this task, I always give the poor bellend an explanation as to why his adorable little wife is taking his life.
I tap my fingers along the round oak table and bring a chair close to him. Settling one hand on his shoulder, I lean in to begin my menacing confession.
“I should properly introduce myself, dear husband. My name is not Elsie. It is Olive, but most of Europe and this side of the hemisphere know me as The Widow.” After sliding a matchbox toward me across the table, I strike a stick, then light the candle between us. His eyes widen with fear while his jaw slackens uncontrollably. Small sounds of struggle mewl from his throat and his shoulders sag. An aura of defeat looms over him as he struggles to move his paralyzed limbs atop the table. Rapping my nails on the wooden surface, I continue to assess my soon-to-be-dead spouse, resting my head on top of my fist.
“Why? He-heart. B-break, mine?” The words barely stutter from his lips.
“I don’t break hearts. I end bloodlines,” I coldly state.
Franklin inherited his wealth from his family’s shipping company. My research shows he rapidly inherited it by sinking said family into the Atlantic Ocean as they were returning from Africa. Felix and Sicaro were once trade partners with Franklin’s parents. They are both handsome individuals. Felix originated from Nigeria, Sicaro from a small country called Jamaica. Each established their own shipping export companies, which grew so successful they expanded across the globe. Franklin’s parents, Felix, and Sicaro had met in Spain at one of the shipping yards, ultimately forging an international alliance. Unfortunately, Franklin grew greedy over the years and—as I said—killed his parents, then inherited the company and severed all ties with his parent’s former partners. Then he selfishly sold their ships to the highest bidder, instead of allowing Felix and Sicaro to bid for them and maintain their trade routes. All this information was acquired during the research portion of finding my next potential victim. Within the dark channels of the world, individuals with the motivation can find anything they want. Drugs, weapons, or an assassin, if they provide the right price. When I learned of this opportunity, I offered my services to Felix and Sicaro who were more than happy to oblige. Now that Franklin and I have been married for two days, all agreements have been completed, and until now, he believed I was a bumbling moron. The inheritance is transferred to me on his passing. When formalities conclude, I shall bestow the company to Felix and Sicaro.
At the ripe age of thirty-two, I have accomplished much more than others could have dreamed, but I also do not allow my dreams to dictate my hard work. At this point in my life I have scouts throughout this side of the hemisphere that migrate through dark channels and locate eligible victims. I have certain requirements when selecting a victim: They may not have siblings, their egos are more substantial than their hefty bank accounts, and their intelligence must be low. They must be easily entertained and easily captivated by a beautiful woman.
I cultivate an essence of naivety mixed with a bit of challenge to further pique their interests, promising my “innocence” after we are wed. I never stay married for more than two days, and afterward I flee, leaving my pseudo-name and the corpse of some egotistical brute behind. To help ensure I am not touched by these cretins, I discuss having my menstruation the first two days of marriage so they will feign distaste and reschedule marital curriculars until my menstruation is complete. If they did not mind the scenario, then I would force an episode of emesis. I’d rather deal with the humiliation of that than them touching me.
And I will never let them touch me, and those who have tried to force themselves on me have been met with a much heavier force in return. My failsafe is an ornate cane, made custom for those harrowing situations. It has emerald and navy tones painted onto the wood and a beautiful mermaid carved into the handle of the cane. There is a mechanism at the bottom hiding an inconspicuous firearm. There is a small, hidden button on the breast of the mermaid, which opens the protective casing on the bottom and activates a drop-down trigger within the handle.
Slowly I stroke the handle of my cane as I watch the light dim from Franklin’s eyes. An overwhelming feeling of spite takes over, and I allow my intrusive thoughts to take hold.
Capturing the candle with my gloved hand, I dump the melted wax onto his nape, watching as his skin jerks in pain.
“You cannot become a corpse just yet. I need you to feel every bit of pressure, every slice, every trickle of blood that slides across your body, before your lungs cease to draw air.” A minuscule pleading whimper comes from his throat, as I draw out my blade and begin my administrations.
After an hour has passed and I’ve completed my masterpiece, I sit in silence, staring at a mangled body that reminds me of my mangled childhood—and how one solemn event turned the tides of my fate and the fate of many others.
I had a normal family, a loving mother, and a hardworking father. Mother had long, wavy auburn hair, with bright green eyes and fair skin. Father had deep cinnamon irises, with charcoal hair worn slicked back. I remember our house was filled with happiness and small stories. Individual experiences that emanated the feeling of a wholesome family.
Until he took it. The devil that obsessed over my mother.
My mother.
He took her. Then he tried to groom me.
He murdered my father, in a manner that was ultimately labeled a fatal farming accident. This devil had gone to great lengths to purchase my childhood home, my mother’s debt, thus forcing his way into our lives. I didn't realize his nefarious plans until I was older. This man gave me gifts and attention, his real intention hidden behind farcicality and bribes.
I was unable to observe what my innocence blocked me from.
To preserve. To protect. To keep me whole. As age dawned upon me, wisdom cast its shadow. My horizon expanded. The light gleaming from the correct actions, and the dark expanse from wrongdoings. Wealth was of no consequence or worry for my stepfather and his three sons, all stemming from prior marriages where the wives had mysteriously disappeared. Everything became bigger. Our small, simple house was replaced by a vast stone estate. Gardens stretched beyond the estate walls, overflowing with flowers imported from countries I never fathomed I would see. I attended ballet classes; day after day, and was given beautiful gowns that corresponded with my mother’s. We attended many gatherings, where my stepfather would introduce me to many colleagues and boast of how “obedient” I was. Some nights I would hear soft panting and feel eyes upon me, only to find him or one of my two older stepbrothers sitting in the corner of my bedroom, touching themselves. Even after I had awoken and questioned their actions, they would tell me, "All men do this", and feign that it was a customary practice. Yet they threatened that if I told my mother, both our throats would be slit ear-to-ear.
