Samantha?: Unreliable Narrator

“That was two years ago, I’m fine now. Just let me leave this dump.” I’m six months sober. It’s been the worst six months of my life. Six months, five therapists, four mental breakdowns, three gruesome meals every day. Two “accidental” twelve packs and one loathsome, unsupportive wife. Samantha. I haven’t seen her since I entered this penitentiary. That’s my favorite part about being here. I never have to deal with that piece of trash. I’m actually happy she hasn’t visited me. I mean, she is the whole reason I got here in the first place.

            It all started on a rainy Monday, February 14. Since the day I started dating this cheating, lying, son of a something I will not say, the mere sight of her has made my blood boil. If I’m being completely honest, I don’t even know why I started dating her in the first place. Anyways, on that day I was going to surprise her with an extraordinary date. One unlike something she has ever been on before. I had been planning it for over a month now. It would begin at 2:00 P.M. That morning, I went to the store and bought her a huge bouquet of flowers, chocolate, and a very expensive shirt from her favorite store. I would go home, give her the presents, and bring her to Cape Cod to watch the sunset on the beach. As I entered our room, I saw something very unexpected.

“What is going on here!?” I said as I walked into our bedroom.

“It’s not what it looks like! Jim was just…umm…asking about our new lamp! Why aren’t you still at work?” she replied anxiously.

At this point, I had two decisions. Do I walk out, or do I be the responsible adult and try to work things out? My mind is racing. I have never felt this enraged and offended in my life. Samantha is a lying, deceiving, wench. I trusted her with my entire life and she turned on me at the drop of a nail. Like I meant nothing to her. And with my own brother! However, I didn’t choose to take either of those paths mentioned above…

            Two days later the invitation came. “In loving memory of Jim Walter.” This statement was followed by a gruesome image of him. In just a week, he will be six feet underground, where he belongs.

            They don’t know it was me. Not yet, at least. Samantha has been in a coma for three weeks. I wish she’d just die already. I want to visit her in the hospital to finish what I started, but then they will know I am guilty.

            I conclude that it is my best interest to live the rest of my days as a free man on the streets of Boston. It’s where I belong, and they will never find me. Samantha. The word echoes in my head for weeks on weeks. Flashbacks play on repeat in my brain. If she were here, in front of me right now, waves of cruel words would flow out of my mouth with no regret.

“So, how was your night with that drunken gorilla you always used to throw yourself at?” I would begin.

            I wish I never even met her. She was the biggest waste of my time. After just a week and a half of living on the streets, I gained a thirst unlike any other. Not for water or that special juice Samantha drank to lose weight (which did not work out for her), but for something a little more satisfying. One night, around 11:00, I wondered into a bar. The alluring taste of the beverages made me keep wanting more. It washed all my worries about that idiotic woman for about a night. When the pain she brought me came back, I would go back to the bar. This repeated until I basically lived in that place.

            One night, about 1 year after the incident, she found me.

“I’m very sorry! We hadn’t even gotten that far yet, we had just walked into the bedroom! Give me one more chance, you won’t regret it,” she yelled.

            I was so close to strangling my next victim, right there on the streets of Boston. Life would be so much better with her gone anyways. I straggled around the streets until I had walked the same course three times. How could she do that? I was still in awe as I passed out on the street.

            I woke up in a dungeon. Barbed wire fences, plain gray walls, one single bed. A middle aged woman walked in. She started to talk endlessly about her plans for me in this appalling enclosure.

“Mr. Walter. How are you today? Before you freak out, I just want to let you know that here; you have all the support you need to make it through your journey of recovery!”

            I shouldn’t even be here. That wrench is the reason I’m here. Do they know what I did? Do they know it was HER fault, not mine?

            I waited weeks for a sign, a signal, anything, that Samantha was still alive. Karma has probably gotten to her at this point. I’m extremely grateful that she hasn’t showed up; who knows what would happen if we were left alone in an empty room?

            Why am I still here? The bountiful amount of unanswered questions attempt to kill my brain. This is worse than death. Trapped. No sign of leaving anytime soon. The grotesque woman who slaughtered my heart is also beginning to take over my brain. Thoughts of our moments before the attack slowly come back. The mere appearance of her in my brain makes me cringe.

            A knock on the door. I glance out towards the door. A black and blue, starved, beaten up woman stares back at me.

Samantha?