Michael wasn't happy. It was around 6:30 and there was a pot of boiling water on the stove. His wife, Jennifer, was making beef stew. He hated beef stew. His daughter, Stevie, was in the den glued to her favorite television show, and she still hadn't noticed he'd come home from work in the whole half hour he had done so. His coming home hadn't made the slightest difference in the lives of his family members, so he resorted to abandoning himself in his humid and smelly basement. There were only four things in the basement: a refrigerator filled with the strongest of alcoholic beverages, an ancient reclining chair, a wide screened television mounted on the southern wall, and a rifle handed down throughout generations that hadn't been touched since he had been given it ten years prior when his father passed. He reached into his right pocket a pulled out a few pills he had reserved for an appropriate time. Right now, no other time seemed better than to let the little blue pills take him away from his life. Mike reached for the refrigerator door handle, and grabbed the bottle of scotch and began to chug. Jennifer was now hollering for him from upstairs, apparently she had noticed his car in the driveway and was now requesting assistance slicing up carrots for the beef stew. God, he hated carrots. After a few reluctant minutes, he put the scotch back in its place, and returned to greet his flustered wife.

He cut the carrots reluctantly, mindlessly listening and responding absently to his wife's whining about the day. There's too much shopping to do, too many taxes. Why wasn't he ever there? What was he really doing during those long hours at the police station? "Why can't you provide better for us Michael? You know, I could have married Keith the lawyer across the street, but no, I'm stuck with you, the police chief of a town with literally zero moral corruption. I always knew I should have listened to my mother. She advised me not to take the plunge, she told me that I would regret getting married right after high school. I deserve better, and she told me that. But instead, I was foolish. I was in love. Michael, I'm trapped. You've trapped me in a loveless marriage, and you're not even paying attention. MICHAEL, PAY ATTENTION. GOD DAMMIT MICHAEL PAY ATTENTION TO THE WORDS THAT ARE COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH. MICHAEL?!"
Michael snapped his head up from where he was fervently looking down at the carrots. By now, he was clenching the butchers knife so hard his hand was numbing with intense pain. "I'm very aware of how you feel Jen. It's not what I expected either. But really, this marriage isn't completely lost. What about the marriage counseling scheduled for next week? Jennifer, don't you understand," by now, his hands were locked on her shoulders, and she was tensing up. Michael could feel her trembling, and could see the sweat dripping down her brow, "I love you. I still love you." "Michael, I'm not sure I understand what you're saying. And you don't love me. Love is what we had 15 years ago. What we have now is not love. You're never home, and the only time we speak is to either undermine each other or to argue about whether or not to pursue a divorce. Michael, this isn't the way things are supposed to be." Michael was still clutching the knife.

"Michael, I will walk out on you. I have every right to leave. I can't keep living a lie. What do you think Stevie thinks when she sees us together? This isn't how a couple is supposed to act. We detest each other, and there's no denying it. God dammit Michael, you've ruined my life. You need to grow up. Stop taking your god damn pills and grow a fucking pair of balls. Be a man and shape up. We haven't made love since Stevie was born. 14 years Michael. 14 years. I hope it's apparent what's going on, Michael, I'm cheating on you"
With this, Michael exploded. He wasn't aware that Jennifer had been cheating on him. He felt disrespected. He felt sad. And most of all, he felt hateful. As impulsive as an action as it gets, Michael threw his hands up, still clenching the knife, and demanded his wife's attention.
"I don't provide for you? I'm never home? Jennifer, I'm at the god damn police station fucking risking my life each night to make you and our god damn ungrateful brat for a child comfortable. Jennifer, where the fuck have you been all these years? Our marriage is loveless because you've made it that way! You're materialistic, you're shallow, and worst of all, you're CHEATING ON ME! Do you have any idea how worthless that makes me feel? Maybe you're right, I am worthless. I ruined your life. You have every right to cheat on me. But not any more. This changes tonight."

And with that, Michael brought the knife down on his wife's bosom as she fell crippled on the linoleum tiles. He straddled her defenseless body and began thrusting his fist foreword, smearing his hands in blood repeatedly shouting the words, "I hate you, I hate you, I love you, I hate you, I love you," over and over to himself. As he got up, he finally realized what he had done. What had he done? His wife, his love, his soul mate, his best friend, was lying in a pool of her own blood. She was dead, and this was something of Michael's own doing. With his hands covered in blood, Michael walked over to the bathroom to wash them, and passed the den where his daughter seemed to be undisturbed, still glued to the television. He really had to take a piss, but immediately after, he needed to get rid of Jennifer's body. Inside the bathroom, hands covered in the soapy suds of his hand wash, he looked up at his solemn face in the rusted mirror above their early 19th century styled sink. He looked sad. Really? He wanted to change that. Michael was happy. He knew that. No more Jennifer, no more nights on the couch, and lastly, he was free to be alone. His happiness wasn't forever limited to the night anymore. He could bask in his chair, drink his beer, and watch his sports. Maybe he could put Stevie up for adoption, and then it would just be him, just as he had always planned. Michael felt great. He wiped his hands on the towel, and strode out of the bathroom with his chest held high, with the most cynical looking grin ever to be seen spread across his sweaty mug.
Michael headed to the kitchen. Something had to be done with the body. He knew that no matter how hard he tried, Stevie would find out, but continued to think that if she didn't have to find her mother's mutilated body, the blow would be softened. However, in the kitchen, his wife was nowhere to be seen. Mike checked again throughout the house: the kitchen, the den, the bedrooms, and even the bathroom. "Stevie, where's your mother?" "She's not here. She hasn't been here for years, where have you been? I've been waiting for hours for you to get home. Daddy, it's almost 1:30. I thought tonight was fish stick night?"
Stunned, Michael went back into the kitchen. The beef stew was no longer there. He called his boss to inquire if he had been at work that day. "No Michael, today is Saturday, where has your head been recently?"
He ran down into the basement and opened the refrigerator. The bottle of scotch was still unopened. He ran back into the bathroom to check for any remnants of habitation. There weren't any towels out. The butcher knife was in the dishwasher, without any traces whatsoever of blood to be seen.

He ran into the den and grabbed Stevie by the shoulders. She immediately stiffened. "Stevie! What's going on? What day is it today? What's happening to me? Where did the beef stew go? Can't you smell it? STEVIE! TELL ME THAT YOU SMELL THAT!" She stared, wide eyed and horrified. She burst into tears. "Daddy! I'm so scared. What's happening to you? You've gone crazy. We haven't had beef stew in years, not since mom left! You need to get help dad! I can't help you anymore! Those pills I got at school for your paranoia and psychotic behaviours are destroying you! I just want my daddy back!" And with that, she fell into his arms, wailing and crying, her snot covering Michael's sleeves. Michael was puzzled.

"What are you talking about?" Michael was fine, he knew it. What pills? He definitely just killed his wife, and he felt good. What was this crazy kid talking about. He threw her off of himself.
"There's nothing wrong with me you ungrateful bitch. Go to your room and never come out. And turn off that god damn television."
Michael was happy. He walked into the kitchen, the den, the bathroom, and his home office. This wasn't where he wanted to be, and he knew it. So what was he doing?

Michael was going to the basement. Michael walked down the steep wooden steps toward his personal sanctuary. He threw himself in his reclining chair and picked up the bottle of scotch. He turned on the television. It was the New England Patriots on television right now, just what he wanted. Then, he reached into his pocket and found two blue pills. He dry swallowed them, he had been waiting to do that for a while. He started to drink the scotch. No, he didn't drink the scotch. He engulfed it. It was gone in less than a minute. A few moments later, he heard Jennifer calling his name from upstairs in the kitchen, and he could smell beef stew on the stove. Michael hated beef stew.