Scapegoat

After a brief hiatus, I'm back with the Indie Ink Writing Challenge. This week, Allison Newton challenged me with: Your sister is going to jail for something you did.

I challenged Stillie with "Heat advisory," in honor of the Northeast heat wave.

*****

I took advantage of her. She would do anything for me, and I took advantage of that. And now, she is sitting in jail. For something I did.

I thought I'd had the perfect marriage. Dinner was always on the table when I got home from a long day at work. The kids had their baths and often were asleep, all tucked away in their freshly cleaned sheets. But something wasn't right.

It wasn't always physical, but the verbal abuse started to make me wish for the physical pain. At least that way, I could ice it and fall asleep after a few vicodin. I knew I had to get out. But it's the same story all the time. What if he finds me?

Of course, there was only one solution. It could be an episode of Law and Order, let's be honest.

I called my sister and told her I'd had it. It needed to end. She tried calming me down, but I hung up the phone to shut out her protests. I crept quietly into the bedroom. He was snoring. I hated his snoring.

I knew enough from watching crime dramas to wear gloves. I hovered over him with his own nine iron. It was over before I knew it. Blood everywhere. I ran downstairs, still clenching the club. I don't know how much time had passed - minutes? Hours? - before she walked into the kitchen.

"What the hell?" she cried, rushing toward me, grabbing the club out of my hands.

I just looked up at her, speechless.

She hugged me, rocked me back and forth. When she backed away I saw the blood smears all over her shirt.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"I'll help you," she replied, helping me to my feet.

The kids were still sound asleep. We tip toed into the bedroom, and she gasped. But that didn't stop her. She helped me roll him up and carry the heavy body down the stairs. She insisted we put it in the trunk of her car.

"I know a place," she said.

With that, she drove away into the foggy, chilly night. I ripped off my clothes and burned them in the wood stove. A convenient thing to have.

I don't know how long I slept. I woke up on the couch to my youngest son poking me.

"Where's daddy?" he asked quietly.

"Daddy took a trip."

Clever. I bet that one hadn't been used before.

The morning passed by slowly. The phone rang.

"It's me," my sister said on the other line. "I've been arrested."

"Oh," I said, twisting the phone cord with my fingers.

The evidence had been overwhelming. Her car. Her fingerprints. Her clothes. Her knowledge of our abusive marriage.

She would go to jail for second-degree murder. In the crime dramas the guilty is usually found out. In this case the accused kept her mouth shut.

And I sat idly by.