Digging the Grave

         When my wife and I first started dating, I was having the time of my life. Nobody could bring me down, I swear, because love was on my side. She was the best thing to ever come into my life, nothing at all like the other girls I've known before. Her name alone was exotic enough to drive me wild -- Amelita Giordano, pronounced in her sweet voice with such a crisp accent that I very nearly did fall for her during our first conversation. But, without even going into her Aphrodite body, there turned out to be many more traits about her that convinced me to kneel for her. Her personality could be summed up as nothing short of a tigress, yet that says so little about who she truly was. When she wanted something, she bound herself to her objective with the chains of Hell. If she didn't get it, fire burned in her eyes so fiercely that she could make the world cringe at her feet. And, the greatest thing about it all -- what really melts me inside -- is that she was tame for me. She had a soft spot in her for me, a waiver so-to-speak from the demon that raged inside her. So beautiful, yet she loved me.

         My parents had no hesitation in accepting Amelita. Compared to some of the crazies I've brought to them before, I can't say I really blame them. It was so strange seeing them take her in so easily, almost without any trouble at all. I was too drowned in her beauty; my parents were staring into the face of the tigress. They could see what was actually going on, though they never told me directly what it was. I suppose I don't hold anything against them personally, even so.

         After the roller-coaster ride that is the marriage, the preparation for it, and the party afterward, reality began to settle in. We had both just gotten out of college, I had been staying with my parents, and she with hers, and we both wanted out. It took a while, especially in just getting a job let alone saving up the money, but we worked hard and pulled it off. After a few months, we were able to land a decent apartment and begin our lives together. It was great.

         Then -- I can remember it completely -- I had a bad day at work and came home depressed. I opened up to her about it, wanting to hear some encouragement on how well I was doing. Her exact words to me were: "Quit whining about everything and just do your job. I'm not just going to let you bum this marriage out and quit your job."

         It's tough when your wife doesn't understand you. She had taken my complaining the wrong way. I wasn't so much saying that I wanted a new job or out of the one I was in, but that I felt very taken-for-granted at work and mistreated by some of the management. I had wanted to hear how much I was loved, but maybe that was too soppy of me. From then on, I stopped telling any complaints about work to Amelita. She didn't need to hear it, after all. But, work started getting harder for me and I had nobody to talk to.

         So, I got to the point where I just said to myself, "Hey. Rather than sulk around all the time, why don't you put your efforts towards something good?"

         I went to my wife, who was doing more than the fair share of housework, including laundry, dishes, and cleaning, and offered to help out. She seemed very grateful for the release from the burden. She worked outside of the house just as much as me, so it was fitting that I do more to help around the house -- well, apartment.

         It wasn't difficult work, I discovered, just tedious and a chore. I attacked it with the same attitude I'd brought to work, that is, don't complain and just do it. More and more, though, as I helped Amelita out, I began to see myself doing her clothes, and cleaning her messes, but I'd also find times where she would sit and watch TV for an hour or two straight or go out with friends while I was still busy finishing up housework. It was pretty easy for me to tell that the share wasn't being shared very equally. I brought it up with her one night, trying to make a change.

         "You always complain about everything," she told me. "Don't you ever just shut up?"

         "But, honey," I said, "why is it that -- "

         "Blah, blah, blah...My parents were right, you are good-for-nothing."

         That comment never left my head. I stopped complaining again and took on the housework until it eventually became all my responsibility and none of hers. She would come home from work, throw everything on the floor, and take a seat in front of the TV before yelling at me to bring her food. All while I was folding her clothes. The worst part, though, is that I would go make her that sandwich, and throw away her empty can for her. Whenever I didn't, I would hear, "What the hell. Is it really that hard to fix a sandwich for me? Isn't that what a husband is supposed to do?"

         But all of that was nothing until I lost my job. I always knew management were waiting for a screw-up, any screw-up, to fire me, and that's just what they did. When I accidentally spilled a coffee on the secretary, I was told that my time was up. It was outrageous and I argued, but the boss had always seemed to come at just the right moment that it appeared I was being insubordinate. With the economy, I couldn't find another job very easily. Amelita was nothing even remotely close to understanding. She threatened to kick me out of the apartment, and I had to beg to be allowed to sleep on the couch. My parents had to loan me money, and they weren't happy about it. I received an earful every time I asked for money. It was tough taking so much criticism from them when they knew full well what I was going through with Amelita. They told me I was being a "wimp" and I needed to "tough it out."

         "The marriage isn't all about you, Trent," they told me.

         I had no money to go out somewhere, I had to sell my car to make rent, and Amelita was gaining weight fast. I don't necessarily have a problem with some weight gain, but she was eating up all of the money she was making at work, leaving me to go reach desperately in every direction for all the money I could get.

         And Amelita, noticing her figure loss, became very moody, even more so than before.

         "I can't keep paying everything for you," she would tell me. "Are you even looking for a job? You need to work harder. You have no motivation. Why'd I ever marry a failure who can't even keep a job?"

         Somewhere along the way, I bought a gun. I kept it hidden from Amelita, in a place she would never look: the closet with the mop, broom, and cleaning stuff. I don't know why I bought it or what is was for. Was I considering suicide? Did I think about shooting Amelita? I don't know. I can't even remember buying it, but I was always aware of its existence near at hand.

         I was still searching for a job when I came home one day to find Amelita knocked out on the floor. Her chair had broken underneath her and she had hit her head on the coffee table. Blood was all over her face, but it was mostly dry; she had been out for a while. I rushed her to the hospital and she got checked out. They told me she was going to be okay, but that they were very concerned about her weight. It took me seeing her in that bright hospital light to realize just how much of a mess her body had become. I hadn't even noticed as I had dragged her and heaved her into the car. The doctor thought some heart and circulatory problems might be in her near future.

         When she came back home, she wasn't the same person anymore. Amelita eyes were dull and sullen, her voice seemed very unexcited and nothing even riled her up anymore. She was completely careless, not knowing how she was going to be her medical bill and rent or even go back to work. She could hardly move around anymore. I tried to comfort her, tell her things were going to be okay, back like the old days soon, but she was not the Amelita that I once knew.

         I have to admit, I wasn't overly concerned, either, at the time. Things had worked out in tougher times before, they would work out again. But, that was all until I came home from an unsuccessful job interview to once again find her on the floor. Only this time, her forehead was bleeding from a bullet to the side of her face. It was the worst thing I've ever seen, and I almost died too when I saw it. In her hand was the gun I'd bought, which I'd forgotten about in the closet. My wife was gone now because of it; killed by suicide.

         But, the police didn't believe it. They found the record that I had bought the gun, saw my fingerprints on it later, and I hadn't called them right away. I didn't think that there was a big need to...it was obvious that she was dead. My own parents witnessed against me, though, telling the jury that I had always complained about Amelita, this and that, and when asked if they thought I had it in me to kill my own wife, they answered, "Yes."

         I had no money for a good lawyer. My case seemed to be futile, and it was. I was sentenced to life in prison, and I don't know that there's a whole lot more that I can really say about my life after that point. Needless to say, my life ended with Amelita's. Now, I write this story on the wall of my cell, hoping someday it can be of some use to one like me. Did I live a good life? No. Does my life have a happy ending? I'm still hoping so. Do I regret marrying Amelita? No. Even through it all, I love my wife. She was the best thing that ever happened to me, and still is. I write this in her memory, so that everyone can know that the greatest thing you can have is not yourself.