The Killer

Freedom has its price. Even in the thought of committing a crime, there is repercussion. To escape the consequences, say of murder, one would have to kill whatever is left of the conscience, which might otherwise gnaw in aftershock.

I am reminded of the three or more times Mother tried to poison Father.

Three in particular.

There was the time she attempted to lace his cigarettes. Something reminiscent of cherries. She was never quite dexterous, and the tamper showed. And anyway, dampness in tobacco typically puts a person off. Though, to be curt, at that point Father had only a vague inkling of what was up-- the rage beneath Mother's cold cynical wall of silence.

When she poisoned the tea, it was more obvious in odor. The scent of almond not characteristic of Lipton's orange pekoe. He poured it incrementally into the hardy potted snake plant, smacked his lips and told her it was delish. She tiptoed around the study in fervent curiosity, under various pretenses to peer in at him and after several hours declared: Jesteś twardy.

Hardy, and the plant wilted in the morning, and shriveled soon after.

It was in making pasta that the farce was dropped. It was not something Father told us of, but something we all witnessed. I was maybe 7 at the time, or just under. My Sister was two years older, and very sharp. Mother never cooked, but she insisted that night. Well after 9pm when everyone's nerves were shot, and fatigue was winning out over hunger, Sister mixed the order of the plates; and Mother nearly lost it. Trying her damnedest to retrace which plate to replace where, she settled grimly into her chair.

Two bites in and she was gasping for air.

It was Father who saved her.