Poison

She first saw the small, green ovate leaf peeking out from the ground when it was a particularly bright morning. The sun was high in the azure sky and the air was clear. She paused, with a spade in her gloved hand, and stared at the new intruder in her cozy garden. She was quite sure she pulled all the weeds just last week. This newcomer would suffer a short life.

She stuck her spade firmly into the soil, feeling the thick chop of the metal blade. But then she paused again and observed the bud. Somehow it didn't look...weedy and birds flew here all the time with seeds in their mouth, after foraging in the fruit trees within the vicinity of the neighborhood. Perhaps this plant would grow into something lovely. She pulled out the spade and watched as a passing breeze caused the bud to nod.

She'd let it live, for now.

After dinner and a rather tiring conversation with her husband, she was glad to be washing dishes alone in the kitchen. This man who put a ring on her finger twenty years ago, was getting boring. It was becoming harder to choke out a chuckle at his weak jokes and he hardly brought her out of the house anymore. The television was now a constant source of entertainment for him as long as she could remember. She was left out, unnoticed, unattended and defeated by an electronic contraption that was inanimate and non-living. She felt as though she was collecting dust.

As the week passed, she saw how the plant grew taller and bigger. One day, when the morning sky was clouded over heavily, it sprouted surprisingly beautiful blossoms of an attractive purple hue and boasted petite, darkly skinned, round fruits. She felt amazed. This was no weed and its presence piqued her sudden interest and curiosity. As rain threatened to pour, she headed inside the house to the study room. After some time, she found what she was looking for with the help of the computer.

It was the Belladonna plant.

She scrolled through pictures, convinced by the minute that this was the exact plant which flourished in her garden. It was lethal, deadly, toxic and its name meant "Beautiful Lady" in Italian. She found the read delightful.

As she reclined in the chair, the safe in the study stole her attention away from the computer screen. Through all the years of marriage, her husband had never allowed her to go near this grey box which he took care of more than her. It was tucked snugly, and rather smugly, in the bottom shelf of a quality wooden bookcase. She was willing to bet he had a big stash of money in there, considering his thrifty nature. This trait of his annoyed her beyond words sometimes, so much so that she did not have the slightest sense of alacrity to defend him when friends gossiped.

That afternoon, after the rain, she baked a small pie to perfection with the fruits, mixing a handful of them (six to be exact as it was a nice, even number and the fact that the fruits of the Belladonna plant gave certain truth to the saying "a little goes a long way") with strawberries from the fridge. Her husband commented on the sweetness of the plump berries and finished the confection without sharing. She didn't mind. Ironically, he asked why she put so few blueberries in the pie.

When night came, he couldn't sleep. He told her something was wrong with the room and he could hear sounds outside their bedroom. There was someone in the house. But she played the role of a sympathetic and tender wife, assuring him pretentiously of his unwarranted anxiety as she fought down the smile that tried to part her lips. Confusion and delirium were just some of the fascinating trademark effects of the Belladonna poison.

He couldn't find a comfortable position to sleep and be still. So he sat up, blinked his eyes and muttered incoherently. He pointed to the dressing table and then held his head before falling back to his pillow. She placed a hand on his chest and patted him gently, calmly, all the time being aware of his beating heart near the fingertips of her hand. It would be anytime now. He would be cold and she'd finally have more of the bed to herself.

She had it all thought out. When morning came, she would get rid of the Belladonna plant before calling the police. She shouldn't perform the former act too early though. Her neighbors would be preparing to go to work or sending their children off to school. It would be like trying to find a peaceful resting spot in a bee hive. No...she would wait til afternoon where the surroundings were much more quiet. It would also mean she had to call her husband's boss and tell a fib that he wasn't feeling well, only to discover later, that a silent death had robbed him of her.

She read somewhere that contents in the human stomach would all be gone in a day and a half. But the idea of having her lifeless husband lying in bed for another day is not quite so pleasant. Even if remnants of the fruits of the poisonous plant were found in his stomach, she would have no idea how that was possible. It would be rather easy to say that she was not a controlling spouse and that she didn't keep track of all of her husband's activities. The housework was enough to keep her busy, for goodness sake.

The sky changed color when she opened her eyes. It was the beginning of the next day and the birds were singing outside. Lying on her back, with one palm faced down on her belly, she stared at the plain white ceiling above her. She hated this ceiling. It was so boring, just like her husband and it was looked as though a lazy person had simply pasted a sheet of white paper up there. She much preferred the heartwarming tone of a creamy yellow shade or a refreshing splash of lilac. But white was her husband's favorite color.

She rose out of bed and showered, while watching patches of clouds dotting the sky through a window. Stepping back into the bedroom, she took a look at her husband who was unusually quiet. He was sleeping on his back with his eyes closed. His hands were by his side.

She reached out to touch the ruffled quilt on the bed, smoothing it out a little so that it covered her husband's legs properly. Then she combed through her wet hair and powdered her face as she looked at herself in the mirror of the dressing table, ready to take on another day of being a typical housewife. And still, her husband did not move. Perhaps the prospect of a hearty breakfast would awaken him.

She placed her comb down and stopped to frown. Her set of flora-scented hand lotions, housed in glossy plastic tubes of pastel colors, were arranged in the wrong way. From the left, it was always the tube of geranium cream, followed by the water lily, the pink rose and finally the chamomile, in that order. But the four tubes were disorganized. One of them was even facing the other direction; she would always line them up neatly so that she could see the labels.

She arranged them back to the way she liked it, feeling somewhat irritated that her husband was touching her things and making unnecessary mess. Then she headed downstairs to make breakfast. It would be pancakes today. She would put chocolate chips in the batter. Her husband did not enjoy anything with cocoa, unlike her.

Oddly enough, the milk wasn't in the fridge. She could have sworn that she bought a full bottle just two days ago. She found the empty plastic bottle in the bin beside the kitchen counter that held the spice rack. It was devoid of milk and its blue cap was missing. She sighed, feeling another pang of annoyance that her husband had finished the milk and made no mention to replenish its supply. She recalled how he was in the kitchen last night, looking for something to drink. She would make sausages with scrambled eggs instead.

A soft sound distracted her and she turned away to look towards the dining room which adjoined the kitchen. But she saw nothing. Walking over to the fridge and opening it again to get the eggs, she suddenly halted when her eyes caught sight of something on the floor.

It was the missing cap from the bottle of milk, now revealed to be hidden under the fridge. The color of its striking blue rimmed plastic material contrasted against the pale surface of the tiled floor. It must have rolled here, under the door of the fridge when her husband dropped it by accident. She briefly wondered how she could miss seeing it before but didn't ponder for too long.

She bent down to pick up the cap and felt a heavy blow across the back of her skull when she was straightening up. Her heart skipped a mighty beat and she felt an inability to gasp. Her throat constricted in sudden fright as pain, sharp, acute and throbbing, flooded her head which was now swimming without focus. She stumbled before she fell, her eyes momentarily catching sight of the missing knife from her six piece knife stand. Fear gripped her like a vice as an intense feeling of doom sank within her.

The cap of the milk bottle dropped from her hand and skittered away. Her breaths became short and faint as she remained on the cold kitchen floor, helpless and alone. Her vision started to blur. She could hear the sound of shoes now and see the moving shadow of a hooded stranger. A dangerous metallic gleam shone in his hand.

There was someone in the house, her husband said, just last night.

But she did not listen.