The Sandwich That Broke the Camel’s Back

The Prompt

The Sandwich

"Ugh! The bread is soaking wet! Bread is not supposed to be soaking wet!" he snarled at me as he spit a soggy mouthful of half-chewed peanut butter sandwich into a tissue. I stood at attention next to his bed. He handed the sodden and heavy tissue to me.

He was now vegan, grain free, nightshade free, lectin free, phytic acid free, and deaf to my feeble protestations. He was not free, however, from his acutely tuned palate, which was maddeningly different from mine.
He had requested a peanut butter sandwich. I knew meeting all his new diet criteria would be a bitch, but I rose to the challenge. I had to.

I chose a very small ten dollar loaf of 'bread' and bought it. I bought some raw peanuts. I shelled the peanuts. I soaked, sprouted, and dehydrated the peanuts. After very lightly roasting them, I ground those peanuts into peanut butter. I then very carefully smeared the freshly ground peanut butter onto the somewhat normal looking bread. I made sure to get the peanut butter to the edges just like I had learned in home economics class long, long ago.

I knew how to make a proper tea sandwich.

I now spent my life trying to make this man happy. I signed up for that didn't I? Wasn’t that my reason for being? To make this man happy?

Well, he was not happy with that sandwich.

My Part Begins
And I realized I was not happy at all. I might have signed up for being there for him, but this went beyond the pale. There’s never a “thank you” coming out of his mouth, but there’s always some complaint he just can’t resist informing me of.

There’s no love left in him anymore, just judgment, and he is the Chief justice. That’s all our marriage means to him. I’m so tired of his “Go make me a sandwich” order, which has turned into nothing more than an insult, especially when he feels extra lively and adds “bitch” at the end... with a chuckle.

“Special occasions,” such as his monthly poker game that he hosts for his friends, really means there’s just more work for me to do; cooking something for them, serving them, getting them another beer or whatever. Sometimes I feel like nothing more than a maid or a caterer.

Well, I have had it. I’m tired of doing my best only to have him criticize me for not doing it right. From now on I’ll make certain I prepare everything exactly as he deserves it.

It’s such a tiny container; who would have guessed it’s so dangerous?

When I’d first read that article, it had disgusted me, but now it’s going be my chosen method; and since I read about it in a magazine at the beauty shop, no one will ever know but me.

One week later...

“Here’s your coffee dear; what would you like for breakfast?”

“Ugh, this cold or whatever it is, is really taking a toll on me. I’m not really hungry this morning.”

“But you must eat something dear. You can’t live on just coffee, and I’m getting very worried about your health,” I told him. “Wow, your eyes are really red; let me get the eye-drops and I’ll put some in your eyes for you.”

And I’ll also get a little of the “get the red out solution” on my finger, which then will “accidentally”come in contact with his coffee just as I hand it to him.

“There... that’s better, isn’t it? Now what do you think you can eat?”

“Well, I’ll try to get a piece of toast down, but it might come right back up, the way I feel right now.”

“Alright dear, I’ll make you some toast and get you some more coffee,” I said with a smile.

Hmm... this is taking too long. I think he needs a bit more.

Three days later he was dead, and the cause of death was determined to be a heart attack.

That stupid woman in the article messed up by confessing that she did it, but tried to defend herself by saying she only wanted to make him sick, not to kill him. She was successful killing him, as I have been. The difference is, I’ll never have to testify. But even if I did have to testify, I’d be in the clear because my crime would be ruled accidental.

Rest in pieces, you worm.

_{The Sandwich That Broke the Camel’s Back © free-reign 2020}

I wrote this fictional continuation piece as an entry to the “pop-up wewrite” contest hosted by @owasco, the details of which can be found here: https://steemit.com/freewritehouse/@owasco/a-pop-up-wewrite-contest

In writing this, I make use of a method of killing that I found online, about a woman who murdered her husband with eye-drops that remove redness in the eyes. She claimed she only wanted to make him sick, but she got a 25 year sentence for killing him. I thought it would be a good method for killing the crumb in this story.

Here’s a link to the story: https://nypost.com/2018/09/01/wife-admits-fatally-poisoning-hubby-with-eye-drops-cops/

Thanks for reading!

Sources for images used in this post:

_{She’s Not Happy: Image by Sasin Tipchai from Pixabay
Perfect Housewife: Image by Oberholster Venita from Pixabay
Eyedrop: Image by Jill Fulton from Pixabay}