The Itch

Welcome to The Spot Writers. March prompt: Must include a spider as part of the plot. The spider can be present, mentioned, real, or metaphorical.

 

Catherine A. MacKenzie’s novels, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, and MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark sequel or stand-alone novel (18+), are available on Amazon.

Cathy continues with her Melvin sagas...

 

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The Itch

 by Cathy MacKenzie

 

Marie hates spiders.

I decide to get even with her. I’m sick of her not getting dinner on the table precisely at 5:00 p.m. Not rolling my socks properly. Leaving my undershorts on top of the dresser instead of putting them in the drawer. (She complains I’m picky about my socks and underwear—which drawers I want them in and where in each drawer—so she does this for pure spite instead of learning my preferences.)

I buy a huge spider at the dollar store. Maybe a bit too large, but at first glance, it appears REAL.  Lifeless, of course, a rubbery plastic. Black, with touches of dark purples and blues. It will do the trick, as they say, quite nicely.

When I get home, I put the bag on the kitchen desk. Marie’s out. The girls are home, so we play a game of Monopoly. As usual, I have more money and properties than they do, and I’m gonna win another game.

Then, I hear Marie moseying in the kitchen. I didn’t hear her car pull into the driveway or the opening of the back door; neither did the girls hear anything.

I mutter, “Is that your mother?”

The game is immediately forgotten, and the little brats disappear into the kitchen.

The spider!

The bag!

I hightail it to the kitchen, where Marie’s bent over, hugging the girls. Doesn’t notice me. 

“Hey, Marie!” I say.

She looks up, surprised to see me. I live here, I want to shout, but I keep mum and nonchalantly move toward the desk. The bag: still there, exactly as I left it. Her purse is on the table and not on the desk where she usually puts it, which means she hasn’t noticed the bag or snooped into it. Thank goodness for small miracles!

I slip the bag behind my back and retreat to the bedroom. I withdraw the specimen, which kinda freaks me out when I see it again. I yank off the plastic clip and the cardboard. 

Now what?

I glance at the clock. Four thirty-five. Dinner won’t be ready by five tonight, that’s for sure. Unless she serves some crap out of a can. I chuckle. She deserves this!

I put the black monstrosity into my pocket and go into the den. The girls are back, putting away the game. Good little girls of mine though I didn’t have the chance to proclaim, “I beat you both again!” Probably that’s why they’re getting rid of the game.

I turn on the television. Usually, the TV is on in the kitchen while we eat though if Marie has her way, she’d trash it. She enjoys the other ones, especially the one in the bedroom, the one I’d like to trash.

Oh well...

“Dad! Dad!”

“What the hell!” I jump. “Wha—”

“Dinner. Time for dinner,” Sophie says. “I've been wakening you for forever. Thought you were dead. Like William.”

I rub my eyes. “Like William? No, I’m here. Still alive.” What the fu...

That daughter of mine—both of them, actually—likes to exaggerate. I’m sure my eyes were shut for three minutes tops. Unless Marie messed with the water she keeps in the fridge. Is she trying to eliminate me?

After dinner, the girls work on homework. Marie cleans up. I watch TV.

I must’ve snoozed for a bit. When I wake, Marie is reclining on the couch, reading.

I yawn. “I’m going to bed, Marie. You coming?”

“I just want to finish this book. Then I’ll be there.”

The girls are in bed, fast asleep. Perfect time for husbandly/wifely duties, right? Nope! Not where Marie’s concerned. Not with her and her dratted books. “Just gotta finish this chapter,” or “Just gotta finish this page,” or—you get the drift. 

When she finally decides to join me, in the privacy of our bedroom, on our nice plush queen-sized bed, with the friggin’ two-hundred-dollar comforter she just HAD to buy (that I forked out the bucks for!), a pressie will await her. Right smack dab in the middle of her pristine white plumped-up pillow.

I wait in bed, the too-thick comforter up to my chin, listening to Marie in the bathroom. Brushing her teeth. Washing her face...

Out of the corner of my eye, I sneak a peek. There it is! The black monstrosity.  Stark against the white. Ugly. Gross. If I were a woman, I’d be petrified. I'd screeched to Kingdom Come.

I close my eyes. She’s leaving the bathroom. Clumping toward the bed. Taking her sweet time to plod across the floor.

I hold my breath. I want to plug my ears against her soon-to-come screech. Should’ve inserted earplugs. Gotta keep still; don’t want her to know something’s amiss.

The bedclothes rustle and move.

I clench my fingers. Wait for the onslaught. For she’ll know it was me. But will know it was a “joke”—once she gets her breath back, of course. Once she realizes it’s fake.

I cringe. Here it comes...

The mattress sags. The covers move.

Something plops to my chest. I can feel it through the comforter. What the—

I keep still. Keep my eyes closed. Keep my fingers clenched.

What the hell...

Silence.

I open my eyes. Marie is in bed. Her back’s facing me. She’s a foot away, not trying to spoon into me. The covers are scrunched up around her neck.

I look down, toward my chest.

On the comforter. A black blob.

I scream. “What the f*** is that!”

I jump out of bed.

“Marie! Marie.”

The body in bed, under the comforter, is just that: a body. But it’s a live, breathing one. She’s faking it.

Marie always fakes it.

 

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The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/