Mediocrity

I woke to the sound of rain.

Not the tranquil, calming kind. But the kind that smashes against the window. The kind that forbids you from hearing any other sound. The kind that stops you in your tracks, paralysed by the sheer terror that it is going to shatter the glass.

‘Fuck her for having a skylight built in,’ I cursed as I ripped the sheets from my bare body, allowing the crisp morning air to attack my vulnerable flesh.

‘And fuck her for stripping the carpets,’ I mumbled, glaring at the slippers I had left next to the dressing table at the other end of our bedroom. ‘Who cares if there’s fucking mahogany underneath the carpets?’

I released a low, guttural growl as I began to tiptoe across the room, careful to avoid touching my heels to the violent cold of the floor. The mahogany floor. I reached my destination and quickly slid my feet into the sherpa-lined slippers, sighing deeply as the warmth enclosed my feet. I grabbed my silk dressing gown off the back of the chair next to me, pulling the belt tight.

‘Fuck,’ I said, as I turned to face our bedroom door.

When I arrived in the kitchen, she was already there.

‘Good morning, darling,’ she said, planting a dry yet sticky kiss on my forehead.

I felt my nose scrunch involuntarily. There were tiny remnants of toothpaste tucked into the corners of her mouth, yet her breath still smelt stale.

I sat down at one of the six stools surrounding our kitchen island. Only two of them were ever in use, and never at the same time.

I glanced around our plain, white-marble kitchen – plain except for the canvas wedding pictures hammered into the wall above the oven. They had dirty black marks in the bottom corners that I had never noticed before, as though they had caught fire.

Oh well, I thought. They were fifteen years old, of course there would be some wear and tear.

‘Did you sleep well?’ She massaged my shoulders from behind, shudders dancing down my spine as her icy fingers brushed against my exposed neck.

‘Mmhm,’ I mumbled, reaching across the countertop for the coffee machine. I had wanted an Italian machine. I wanted real coffee. But she saw an advert, so she had to have a that machine. I went to press the button, but she wafted my hand away.

‘Here, let me do that for you!’

Her joy was infuriating. It was 6:30 am. I didn’t want to be awake. Yet the rain hammering on the skylight woke me, the coldness and uneasiness of our bare wooden bedroom kept me awake.

‘There you go darling!’ She passed me my mug of coffee – made in thirty seconds just as the advert promised. It was shit, as expected.

As she smiled at me, I took a rare opportunity to study her face. When we first met – both sixteen -- I remember thinking that she was the most beautiful woman to ever walk this earth and that I was the luckiest man alive to be the sole recipient of her affection.

As we had aged, those feelings had changed. As I looked at her now, she was no longer the woman I had fallen in love with. Her eyes were no longer an enchanting shade of emerald, two enticing pools of green that I had often found myself lost within. Rather, they had begun to resemble dirty, murky water. Her cheekbones and shoulder blades had become more prominent, as though they craved to slice anything that came within their vicinity. Gone were her sleek yet bouncy deep brown curls. Instead, her thinning hair lay limp over her shoulders, streaks of white fighting against the now unappealing brown to make an appearance. She always looked unclean, although she washed vigorously every day. It was sickening.

‘Thanks,’ I mumbled as I took my coffee and walked over to our living room. Fuck this open-plan house, I thought as I allowed my sleep-deprived body to drop onto the sofa, still in the same room as her. Always in the same room as her. I pulled my dressing gown even tighter around myself.

I was awoken by ungodly screaming. I sat up stalk on the sofa, realising that I had fallen asleep.

‘Fuck,’ I growled, frantically wiping the sleep from my eyes. I checked my watch – 2:32 pm – and let out a sigh. The screaming had progressed into animalistic shrieks. I reluctantly walked over to the source of the commotion to see my wife sitting on the wooden rocking chair in the kitchen, hands pinned to the arms of the chair as if by some supernatural force. The noise had stopped -- it never lasted long -- but her eyes remained wide. Tears streamed unrestrained down her ghostly pale face and dropped onto her lap, creating a dark splatter on her jeans. Her mouth had fallen wide, her lips chapped, the corners red and scabbing. I watched as her eyes moved to greet mine without once moving her head. Suddenly, she fell limp. I just stood and watched her, checking my watch every couple of minutes, waiting for this to be over.

2:45 pm.

My wife sat up, turned to face me, and smiled.

‘What are you doing, silly, just standing there watching me!’ she laughed.

I walked upstairs to my office.

As I sifted through my year eleven’s physics mock tests, trying to take my mind off my wife’s latest outburst, I allowed my mind to wander and explore the misfortune of my life. Howhad I – a Cambridge University graduate – been dealt such dire cards in life? I knew I deserved more.

I looked above my desk, where all my awards and certificates were displayed. I had graduated with the highest possible honours in my undergraduate, master's and PhD courses. I had been offered surplus research opportunities, including one within NASA’s astrophysics division, to be told upon attending the interviews that I ‘wouldn’t be the right fit for the team’ - or some other bullshit to that effect.

Unfortunately for them, I am not stupid. My eyes were still fixed upon my qualifications. I knew they didn’t give me those jobs because they were intimidated by my intelligence. The world doesn’t care for those of us with supreme intellect, it just caters for those who will remain forever mediocre, like my wife.

My wife, who had countless awards that she doesn’t even care to display.

Whose name is taught in schools across the world due to her research into language and literature.

My wife, who is constantly getting flown across the globe to attend conferences, participate in research or hold sell-out seminars.

My wife who does not deserve any of that. That should be me. The world just pitied her mediocracy, and deemed her relatable as she isn’t as smart as me. There is no competition with her, anyone can achieve what she has. The world just chooses to ignore those of us with genuine genius and intelligence.

I noticed my phone buzzing in my pocket. Frustrated from being disturbed, I answered the phone without checking the caller.

‘I know you did it!’ shrieked the voice at the other end of the phone. ‘I know it was you!

I will spend every waking moment of the rest of my life proving it was you, you sick -.’

I ended the call, rolling my eyes. It was my sister-in-law, ringing me for her daily ramble, hysterically trying to prove that I did something or other.

At this point, I can’t even remember what she believes I did. I feel sorry for her, she has clearly gone insane – it seems to happen to women her age.

I checked the time on my laptop – 9:25 pm – and let out a yawn. I placed the now-marked mock tests in a paper tray, embarrassed by the grades my students have received. I tidied my office and headed off to bed, not before dusting and polishing the frames above my desk.

I woke to the sound of rain hitting the skylight, again. It was 1:45 pm. I always allow myself to sleep in on a Sunday, I deserve it.

I strip the sheets from my body, place my feet within my slippers this time placed beside the bed, and collect my dressing gown from the dressing table chair. I take an angry look at the skylight, cursing my wife, and head downstairs.

When I reach the kitchen, my wife is already there.

‘Good morning, darling!’ she says, greeting me with a cold hug. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, taking a seat at our too-empty kitchen island. Without hesitation, she began making me a coffee. The room is silent except for the hissing and gargling of the machine.

She lifts my mug from the machine and places it gently in front of me. Neither of us say a word.

As I look around, I realise just how much I hate this house. It’s constantly cold, constantly silent if not for her futile attempts at conversation. I look back down at my drink – I'm not going to let her ruin my Sunday.

As I sip my coffee, I notice Veronica smiling at me. It makes me sick.

‘What could you possibly be smiling about,’ I snarled, feeling my blood boil dramatically. I’m unsure why she has pissed me off so much already, she hasn’t explicitly done anything wrong, but her constant, unrelenting presence makes me feel uneasy. I watch as the smile drops from her face. I enjoy it. ‘Veronica, you have ruined my life.’ I’m enjoying myself, watching my words hurt the woman who has brought me nothing but misery.

‘Fuck you and this house, Veronica.’ I savour watching her twitch every time I say her name. ‘You have no friends, no family who wants to see you – who have you built this home for, if not yourself?’ I continued, the blood now rushing to my head, my cheeks flaring with heat.

‘You have no one, Veronica. No one. You’re selfish.’ I still don’t know where all this is coming from, but the strange sensation of rage entangled with thrill makes me feel alive for the first time

in a long time.

‘I had no one because you didn’t want me to see anyone,’ she said, calmly staring at me.

I stand up, she steps back.

‘You stopped me from seeing my friends and family. I decorated this home for our

children – remember? Our four beautiful children.’ A sole tear escaped her right eye, yet her calm demeanour never faltered.

I blinked. Children? We never had children. The woman was completely mad. It must run in the family.

How had I allowed myself to fall in love with a mad woman?

I walked towards her and pushed her, repulsed by the sight of her. She fell back into the rocking chair, releasing a small yelp as she hit the seat.

‘You’re insane,’ I hissed, avoiding her eyes.

‘Robert, I’m not. Our children live with my sister now.’ She said between breaths, eyes darting to avoid more tears escaping.

‘You’re mad, Veronica! Mad!’ I shouted, losing my patience. ‘All you do is walk around the house, smiling at me, watching me. You don’t even go to work anymore; you never leave the house!’

She disgusted me.

I stepped towards her, removing the belt from my dressing gown, not caring that I was naked underneath.

‘Robert,’ she said faintly.

I had enough. I strapped her frail arms to the arms of the rocking chair and walked towards the oven.

‘Robert,’ she said, concern beginning to appear in her voice. Why didn’t she fight back?

Pathetic.

I grabbed the kitchen lighter from the drawer. ‘I hate you. I wish I had never met you. Fuck you, Veronica.’ I muttered as I raised the lighter to the canvas’ above the oven. I touch the flame to the bottom corners of each picture, delighted by the flames slowly spreading across the memory of what I once thought to be the happiest day of my life.

Veronica’s grating voice woke me from my trance.

‘Robert, please. What are you doing?’

‘I am showing you that you are nothing to me, and without me you are nothing. This insanity has gone on far too long.’ I grabbed a knife from the same drawer I found the lighter.

Veronica began to scream. I didn’t care. She was mad. It would be even more cruel to let her live, for both of our sakes. I rushed towards her, knife raised above my head.

Her eyes were wide, tears streaming down her onto her lap. I pressed the tip of the knife to her chest.

The screams progressed into more animalistic shrieks.

I pushed the knife into her chest.

The noise had stopped.

I retracted the knife and stabbed her again.

Her mouth had fallen wide, I noticed

that her lips were chapped. I stabbed her again.

And again.

And again.

Until she fell limp.

I checked my watch. 2:45.

I walked upstairs to my office.