“The Rituals of the Black Widow” by Keturah Moore

FullSizeRender (1)Covered in dust was a picture of my wife and I sitting on top of the fireplace. It was when we got our first car and home together. It was this green and black used 1956 Gran-Torino with gold rims and the house was this two-story home with black barred windows, but was painted this oddly bright yellow that mirrored the late happiness of my life. That house was beyond ugly to me, and with going on 5 years of being together, that picture embodied my wife’s smile glistened happiness and my smile beamed proudness and positive hopes for the journey to come. That image captured the innocence that we once had as husband and wife.

Every morning I wake to the same pale face filled with preciously placed freckles that sometimes stole the show from her innocent almond eyes. I watch relentlessly as her curly hair would violently cascade off the bed as she forces herself to wake with each grunt and moan. I could sense that she wanted to stay tucked in bed, but she got up anyway. It was time for breakfast. Eggs and pancakes at 8am and a packed ham and cheese sandwich for lunch at work. The escape at work was great, but then I had to come home at 6:30pm, shower, and converse with her while she would painstakingly try to have dinner ready by 7pm. Her hips switched right to left as she walked to the kitchen. She knew that I was proud to have a woman to cook, to clean, and to have sex with every night… but I wasn’t anymore. Our sex was odd and distant now and I only fucked from the back to avoid the gaze of love in her eyes that I know she wanted back from me. I just simply could not give it to her. I was tired of living this robotic ass life. I wanted excitement.

That night my wife confronted me on my affairs, she sat queen style in this hand woven straw chair, drinking wine and waiting for me to return home. The second I began to stumble my way into that ugly house at 4 in the morning, I could see the tension in her posture. I knew she figured it out and she did not waste any time making the room echo with constant thuds of tension, broken glass, and dangling paintings that once sat unbothered on the wall. She began to hit me, start to cry, and then wail to me my why as if I forced her stay and endure this routine of pain. Yet, it was at that moment that I fell in love with her all over again and I wanted her so fucking bad. With each punch, she instilled in me the excitement from this relationship that I desired for. She was throwing pain and I was receiving pleasure. But, after that night, neither of us were the same again.

That night, we gave birth to a new ritual that I finally had the motivation to stick it out and let it grow. That night I begged my wife not to leave me and not to my surprise, she stayed. Time went on and my wife was nothing but walking depressions of regret, pain, and sadness. I became the black widow to all her emotions and lust for my love. Every night, she would take a few bumps of Miley and I would swallow a whole bottle of Jack Danielle to prepare myself for our new cultural shift. We didn’t speak anymore…only fight. My wife became immune to the pain and deceit that I caused her. I, on the other hand, was content. And when we were done for the day, I would carry her to bed and thrust with her to release the tension that we caused each other. I fuck her from the front now. I look her in her eyes now. I once thought that it was me who deserved better. And, now I’ve got her tangled up in my web waiting to consume her like the black widow does her mate. I can tell her heart is getting cold. She endures my twisted ways of life, but this is a ritual that I will never let go.

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