The apartment was one room and poorly-lit. The television was on and JR was sleeping. He was lying on his back beneath a slow-spinning ceiling fan.
Frank jiggled the window and it wasn’t locked. He opened it quietly and stepped in. He walked over to the side of the bed and stood over JR.
JR just snored and scratched his beer-gut. Frank felt sick and swallowed hardly. He clenched his fists and flexed his calves.
He pulled a hunting knife from his waist-band and cut JR’s throat. JR’s eyes shot open and he grabbed his neck. Frank buried the knife in his beer-gut and twisted. JR was motionless before he could amass any defense.
Frank wiped the blade clean on the bed sheets and went into the restroom. He puked in the sink and blew snot-rockets on the floor.
After he composed himself, he washed the vomit down the drain. He rinsed his hands and face. He looked at the floor and expected to feel better.
Frank only felt the same. He had killed the man who raped his wife and could sense no real improvement . . .
Frank stood in the bathroom and experienced no difference. He still felt sick to his stomach. He looked in the mirror and prepared to get rid of the bodies. He was thinking concrete, chains and the bottom of Lake Travis.
He walked back into the room and wrapped JR’s body in the bed sheets. He hoisted him over his shoulder and carried him down the fire escape.
He popped the trunk and set JR’s body inside, beside that of his wife’s.
He had killed JR for ruining his wife. Frank had killed his wife for having been ruined—