The Witch's Brew

I put the kettle on, listening intently to the water as it boiled. My heart seethed as the temperature of the water rose. Henry Lexington would be the death of me. I knew it.

Unless I got to him first.

I searched desperately through the cupboards looking for my husband’s favorite mug. Incidentally, it was the one with the lovely lady on it. The lovely blonde lady. I myself am raven-haired, with what my mother has always said are striking green eyes, yet he never seemed impressed by anything I did. Not the dinners waiting for him every evening he got home from work. Not the spotless house. Not the coffee every morning. Not the relatively fancy outfits I wore as his housewife.

We had been together for ten years now. I counted every second of minute of every hour of every day. Henry was, supposedly, a great guy…until you had to live with him day in and day out. That’s when the trouble started—right after our honeymoon in Paris. Until then, we were happy as could be. The minute we made love something shifted. We’d both agreed to wait until marriage (I’d pretended I was a Christian because I yearned for him so deeply) and it had seemed worth it until the moment actually arrived. Then it was just…anticlimactic. It was as if it dawned on us both that we were not truly meant for each other in this intimate way, yet now we had no choice. There was no escaping unless we broke our vows. Or one of us died.

I picked up the mug with the pinup girl stretched across the white surface and searched for his favorite tea bags: Harney & Sons’ pleasant Earl Grey. He had practically demanded I make it for him this morning instead of his regular burnt-tasting bitter black coffee. I always made my own separately because I couldn’t stand the taste of his. This morning though...This morning would be different.

Henry Lexington, my darling husband of 10 years, had sinned last night.

For the first time in forever, I knew about it. My friend Darlene had happened to be staying at the same hotel as Henry and his mistress. She said he was with some red-head with an enormous bust which she thoroughly enjoyed showing off. She saw them enter the same room together without anyone else and, she had added mischievously on the phone, “It certainly didn’t look like a professional commitment to me.” I had laughed despite myself, but it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t funny at all. I had spent day and night dedicating myself to this man for years on end. The only time I had on my own was one week per year, when I went to Paris, France to enjoy the museums and visit my niece. That was a mercy, certainly: a welcome respite from the constant cooking and cleaning, though it was not enough. It was never enough. I was never enough for him. Whatever I did, it didn’t matter. It was simply…expected of me. I was taken for granted, and now he’d broken his end of the bargain.

Henry Lexington would pay.

I found an Earl Grey teabag, dropped it in his despicable mug, and poured the boiling water over it. There was only one thing left to do: an important finishing touch.

Henry was there in the living room reading The New York Times, fuming about the injustices of the world without giving his own infidelity a second thought. He was too caught up lamenting the war in Iraq.

“Is the tea ready, Heidi?”

“It will be in a few minutes dear! I’m almost done.”

Where had I placed my poisons?

Little did Henry know I had a special box, and only I had the key: I kept it in one of my empty ornate tea boxes in a cupboard that was quite high—I had to make sure it was difficult to access, even for a tall man. I got my step ladder out, hoping I hadn’t moved my box: Yesterday I’d taken it out after speaking with Darlene, carefully considering exactly which fatal extract I should place in his morning beverage. I’d finally settled on dragonsbane: a clear, tasteless poison which was immediately fatal yet completely invisible and unnoticeable. It would certainly do the trick.

Unfortunately, I’d been so bereaved after hearing about my husband’s wrongdoings that I couldn’t remember if I had put the precious box back. After all of these years, Henry had never noticed it: He hadn’t once set foot in the kitchen; that was my domain.

Sure enough, the small vile of dragonsbane, an invisible liquid, was there. I couldn’t help but smile. I grabbed it carefully, climbed down from the step ladder gingerly, and placed two drops into the Earl Grey: that’s all it would take. I’d studied this extensively throughout my marriage: I’d been miserable on several occasions, yet I had endured because I thought Henry Lexington was faithful. Oh how wrong I had been.

A quote I’d heard on the television as I was cleaning the floor yesterday came to mind.

"'Til death do us part' could mean by his hand, but who cared?"

—Tia Levings

I would turn that quote on its head. I would not die by Henry Lexington’s hand. I was done with that man having power over me in any capacity. I was certain his inheritance would be sufficient for me to support myself until the end of my days before I’d likely die of old age.

“Tea’s ready, dear!” I said, trotting over to him with his mug.

He smiled that annoyingly smug smile of his.

“Thank you, Heidi!” He replied, taking the mug in his hands.

He sipped it as though he was testing whether or not I knew how to make tea correctly. Then he slumped over on the couch, the morning paper tumbled off of his lap swiftly, and his heart stopped almost immediately.

Tonight, I would wait until the night was completely black (it would be a new moon) and I would bury him in the backyard before transplanting innocent little purple tulips over his rotting corpse. As far as the entire neighborhood knew—as far as the entire world would ever know, for that matter—Henry Lexington had suffered a sudden heart attack. It happened every day and there was no reason to believe any differently. I would clean everything up the next day and that would be that.

When the sun rose, I would be a free woman for the first time in forever.