Chicken Pot Pie

The wallpaper was green, and floral gold designs slowly fading framed its moldy face.

His hair was slicked back with so much gel it crinkled and cracked when pulled.

His vest pulled tight against his white collared shirt, a watch sat neatly in his pocket.

He laughed casually and smiled calmly.  

Knowing he was the best in the room,

He bathed in gold and smelled of cigars and tar.

She hated him.

She wore a yellow dress with a perfect fluffed skirt,

Curled brown hair not allowed to go shorter than her shoulders, no longer than her waist.

Her red heels clicked against the polished wood floor,

She was a perfect cook.

Perfect wife.

He wanted her to be as such, so she was,

Her ginger scent must swoon him,

She must leave the home.

If she was not to act accordingly she was locked into a small damp closet that smelled of gasoline and regret.

He would sit outside the door and berate her with insults, reminding her why she is lucky he chose to marry her. Then he would smoke a pipe,

And breath the smoke.

They had to remove the fire alarm batteries because of his obsession.

He was pudgy, he used to be firmly built.

All of her perfectly crisped chicken pot pies stuffed him to the brim,

If it didn't it was the closest she would go to,

Sitting, watering the floor with salty tears.

Another of her signature dish was currently sitting in front of him,

She remained sitting across from him, with nothing to eat. 

Only water to drink.

Her frail arms were crossed and her lips tight as she watched him eat the luscious pie.

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He would glance at her and chug his wine, giving an annoyed grin,

There was no small talk. Just silent still air, 

Windows frosted,

House cold.

She had given up everything for this man,

Her country, her family, her baby.

But he returned nothing,

Nothing but hurt, nothing but sadness,

Nothing but insanity.

She tapped her red heels against the old wooden chair as she watched him Eat up the pie,

It was almost time for his work,

All he did was call his buddies and watch golf.

The clocked tick and his eyes looked at his watch, time to go.

His eyes speared through her as he got up to leave

 she stopped him, telling him of a treat she prepared for him.

He was so easily swayed, just tell him what he wants to hear.

He licked his lips as she told him of the cake she baked,

A nice chocolate-thick cake.

She went to fetch it out of the kitchen,

Yellow ugly walls with a dirty stove.

She practically glided across the tiled floor,

A sense of pride following her behind

She grabbed his golfing club.

Ruff tape, firm grip, perfect for golfing,

And getting rid of pesky vermin

There was no cake.

There was and will never be satisfied.

No happiness

Just fake empty vows,

And a fake promise of a better life.

She told him to close his eyes, and he obliged.

She pitied him, but he was now the pig.

She was the butcher.

She walked to him, floorboards creaking, the silver plates on the table sat clean of food,

Perfectly polished,

Just how he liked it.

She swung,

A thick splat rang through the air as his golfing club thwacked across his big head,

He screamed,

She silenced his squeals with another swing.

His head hit the table,

The perfect white lacy cloth now stained with poisoned blood of a once horrible man.

He is not bad anymore,

He can't hurt her.

She smiled and caught her reflection in the plates, her face was twisted, her eyes crazed. 

She'd fix her makeup later.

He was hefty and hard to carry.

She looked small, but she could carry some weight.

After all, she had been carrying a lot of things for a while,

Getting rid of him was just a good bit of that weight removed.

She unlocked the door of the closet,

Bleeding painted walls and all.

She pushed him in there, locking it back. 

She pulled up the creaky rocking chair, sat, and lit his pipe. 

A smile wistfully sat upon her face, as she rocked back and forth.

Reminding his body how lucky he was

To be with her.

The green wallpaper was now red and blue,

 sirens broke the silent air.

Cuffs slipped over her frail wrists like a glove.

The closet door was now cracked open,

But he wasn't there.

When asked where his body went,

She smiled,

And asked if they would fancy a chicken pot pie.

After all, 

It was her special.