1985
‘Pass us a Carlsberg’, Brian grunted from his recliner.
Stella hauled her heavily pregnant body back to the kitchen and grabbed her husband’s beer and her own TV dinner.
‘Move – I want to see the beginning of this!’ Brian said in an irritated tone, as his wife of three years passed by his seat. There was no way he would be missing a moment of Crimewatch.
As the now-familiar theme tune began to play, Stella crossed the great divide to the floral, velour sofa that was fast-becoming out of fashion. She sat down, finally resting her swollen feet. Nick and Sue appeared on-screen and started discussing a woman who shot dead her husband.
Stella looked over at Brian; his white vest had orange stains all over it, his overgrown mullet knotted, his moustache speckled with a lasagne TV dinner, and his elasticated Easy jeans could barely contain his fat, inflated stomach.
Dear God, what is this life? Stella thought to herself as she rubbed her pregnant belly and watched her husband with disgust.
She felt trapped in this ugly existence; she’d always felt she deserved more – a smile like hers should be able to buy her the world, instead she was stuck in her beige life, in grey UK, with a dull and pasty man.
Nick and Sue continued, and Stella learned that the murderous wife had endured twenty years of abuse and finally snapped, took a hidden handgun and shot him in the back of the head during dinner.
Instead of duck she decided on death.
Stella smiled to herself at her bad pun, but her smile turned to venomous thoughts as she found herself feeling jealous of the killer wife on TV.
She was just a woman taking control of her life, Stella justified, and why not? Sure, Brian’s never laid a hand on me but where are all the yearly trips to Paris he promised me? That’s the same as murder, right? Or at least abuse – stealing someone’s life with lies!
She glanced back over at her love.
Ugh, look at him sitting there, drinking beer and… Jesus Christ – the stains! Doesn’t he know how hard it is to get them out? USE YOUR PLATE!
Stella set aside her TV dinner and waddled into the kitchen.
She picked up a sharp knife that had never been used in this sad, brown kitchen, and walked slowly to the living room.
‘You know what, Brian?’ she whispered, standing behind him.
‘Eh?’ he grunted, not even bothering to turn his head.
‘I’m too pretty for this shit’ and with that she jabbed the knife into his neck three times with a speed not expected for someone eight months pregnant.
Stella hit play on the BoomBox.
A Flock of Seagull’s ‘I Ran’ rang out and she danced around the living room feeling reborn. Her husband’s blood slowly stopped pouring and he sat dead in his recliner watching the show with a knife sticking out of his throat.
