This is part two of a story about a crime of passion. It stands alone, but if you care to, you can read part one here.
As soon as the shock of Brian’s threat to kill her passed, Emily began laughing hysterically. “Emily, please stop laughing at me,” he pleaded. But she didn’t stop.
With tears streaming from his eyes, Brian ran from the living room into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Even with the door closed, he could still hear Emily laughing.
Brian braced his back against the door waiting for her mocking laughter to stop, which it finally did. After a few minutes of silence, Brian sat down on the edge of the bed, barely breathing, wishing he could just disappear. Then he heard her heavy footsteps as she walked by the bedroom toward the kitchen. He held his breath.
The refrigerator door opened and closed. Pressure was released as another bottle of Pepsi was opened. He heard her walking back to the living room, where she planted herself down onto the couch.
“You bastard,” Emily called out. “I missed the first half of my soap.”
Brian knew he didn’t have it in him to kill Emily. He couldn’t even kill a cockroach or spider. He’d trap them and then open up a window and toss them outside. He took a deep breath, gathered himself, and marched from the bedroom to the living room and positioned himself between Emily and the TV.
“What do you want now?” Emily asked.
The tone of her voice knocked some of the confidence from Brian, but he cleared his throat and said as calmly as he could, “I want a divorce.”
Once again, Emily burst into laughter. Brian looked at her sprawled out on the couch like a beached whale. What was left of his confidence was replaced by raw hatred.
“You want a divorce?” Emily said when she finally stopped laughing. “First he wants to kill me and now he wants a divorce,” she said as if addressing some imaginary third party in the room. “The impotent little mouse gets fired, comes home, and announces that he wants to kill me. But he doesn’t have the balls, so now he wants a divorce. What a brave little mouse he is.” Glaring at Brian, Emily demanded, “Now get out of my way so I can watch my soap.”
“Emily, listen to me,” Brian pleaded. “I’m serious.”
Emily looked up at Brian. “And what is my brave little mouse going to do if I refuse? Threaten to kill me again? Now move so I can watch my damn soap.”
Deep down inside Brian knew that Emily wouldn’t agree to a divorce. Why would she? She pretty much controlled everything in their lives. Emily repositioned herself so that she could see the TV.
Feeling nothing but contempt, Brian’s eyes darted frantically around the room, unable to focus on anything in particular. He was looking for something, but he had no idea for what. He was having trouble deciphering the noises swirling around his head.
Unable to organize his thoughts in any rational way, he turned away from Emily and almost mechanically started walking toward the kitchen.
As if in a trance, Brian went to the cabinet with the pots and pans. He searched until he found a heavy skillet, which he picked up and held in both of his hands, not sure why he’d reached for it.
“Brian, what are you going to do now?” Emily appeared in the kitchen door, her shrill voice breaking his trance. “Are you going to cook something?” she said mockingly.
“I, I, I’m going to, um, make some pancakes,” Brian stammered.
“Give me that, you idiot! What do you know about making pancakes?” Emily said as she reached for the skillet. “First you get fired, then threaten to kill me, then ask for a divorce, and now you want to make pancakes.”
“I’m warning you, Emily,” Brian said as Emily moved to take the skillet from him. “Keep away from me.” His voice was cracking and he began sweating profusely.
A grin came to Emily’s face and her smile evolved into a subdued chuckle. “Is this another death threat, mouse?”
“Damn you, Emily. Quit calling me that”
“Well stop acting like one,” Emily snapped back.
“Shut your mouth you over-stuffed cow!” Brian’s tone surprised even him.
“How dare you speak to me like….”
“Shut your goddam mouth, Emily.”
The sting of Emily’s hand striking against Brian’s face was fiery. Without thinking about what he was doing, Brian raised the skillet and started swinging it in a wide arc toward Emily’s head.
“Brian, what? Brian, NO! Bri….”
The skillet hit the left side of Emily’s face with crushing force. Her body went limp and she fell back across the kitchen table. Brian lifted the skillet over his head and brought it down on his target a second time. And a third. And then a few more times. Until his rage subsided.
Covered in blood splatter and brain matter, he dropped the heavy skillet, walked over to the kitchen sink, and puked his guts out.
Welcome to May 5, 2020 and to Fandango’s One-Word Challenge (aka, FOWC). It’s designed to fill the void after WordPress bailed on its daily one-word prompt.
Okay, yes, I was in a 
If I’d stopped to think I might not have done it, but fury is a great disregarder of caution. I jumped into the murky water from the houseboat we’d rented to try to retrieve the diamond engagement ring my fiancé, in a fit of rage, threw overboard.
This, That, and the Other 