jamila

Freedom

Her life began the day she saw her first suicide.

Renata studied the man in front of her, more fascinated than horrified. He looked normal, except for the belt around his neck, she thought. And the drool and swollen face. Calmly, she reached out to undo the buckle on the belt. Nice belt. Expensive. You can't be cheap with the instrument of your own death, she supposed. It took some wriggling to get the belt undone, the buckle had sunken into the man's jowls deeper than she had thought. As he fell with a resounding thump to the closet floor, she dabbed her hands with an antibacterial wipe.



As she hung up the phone, Renata was proud of herself for remaining so calm. Not that it had been hard, she really didn't feel anything. No sympathy, no grief. Her mouth was parched. She poured herself a glass of orange juice in the kitchen and sat down at the table to wait. She looked around the well-appointed kitchen and noticed that Frank had left the milk out earlier that evening. Irritated, she got up and replaced the milk in the stainless steel refrigerator, then returned to her post at the table and continued her wait.

When she heard the distant wail of sirens, Renata dashed into the bathroom and rubbed a dab of liquid soap in each eye, welcoming the burn. She peered in the mirror through the blurriness and was pleased. The tears now streaming down her face looked convincing enough. She sniffed, for practice. It would do. The front door slammed open just as she managed a frown. Right now, all she wanted to do was laugh.

She led the paramedics down the hall to the bedroom, sneaking a smile with her back to them, then quickly rearranging her face to look shocked and grief-stricken.

"H-he's right in here," she warbled. "I was asleep and I I woke up to use the bathroom and he was " she let out a wail. The medic placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "It's all right, ma'am. Why don't you just wait in the other room?" He gave her a gentle half-smile that said, 'I know what you're going through.' She almost laughed then, but managed to croak instead, and she buried her face in her hands just in time.

Renata jiggled her leg nervously as she waited. What is taking so damn long, she wondered. He's fucking dead; just get his bloated body out of my fucking house. For a fleeting moment, she stared at her lap and wondered if she was a horrible person. The thought brought a crooked smile to her lovely face.

"Excuse me."

Renata's head snapped up.

"Sorry ma'am," the cop mumbled apologetically. "I just need to get some information from you." How old was he? Twenty-five? Not thirty yet, anyway. She stared at his arms in the short-sleeved uniform as she gestured to the chair across from her. "Have a seat, please." He lowered himself into the chair uncomfortably. Was this his first suicide, too?

"I won't keep you long, ma'am. I just need some basic information."

"Really, I understand. Ask whatever you need." She paused. "I just I just want to get this over with. I'll help however I can." It was about time she helped someone. She certainly hadn't helped Frank when she heard him choking in the damn closet. Had he know she was awake? It really didn't matter now, did id? Renata leaned forward, her robe parting slightly to reveal a hint of cleavage. Oops. She placed a manicured hand on his knee. "I just want you to know, I appreciate your kindness." She looked down, beginning to enjoy this game. "This is just such a shock, you know?" She looked up at him through the fringe of her lashes. Flirting could be a great way to alleviate ennui. Again, he shifted uncomfortably.

The young cop took out his leather-covered notebook, clearing his throat nervously. "What is was your husband's full legal name?"

"Frances Lloyd Abbot."

"What was his date of birth?" The hand holding the pen shook.

"Four-three-forty-two." She sniffed prettily.



Renata washed her face and dabbed on her Oil of Olay. They were all gone, and the best part was, they had taken Frank with them. She peered at her reflection in the hallway mirror. Not bad, she thought. Her eyes were a little red from the soap, but that was just as well. A woman was expected to cry after her husband hung himself. They hadn't married him. She was sure anyone who had had to live with Frank, much less submit to his increasingly disturbing demands in the bedroom, would have understood why she smiled now, satisfied with the image in the mirror. Being a widow suited her just fine.