Asa Dundon

I hated my daddy for marrying me off. He sold me to the town butcher, mean ol’ Mr. Alphonse Wagner, for the price of two heifers and a lifetime supply of fresh venison. That’s how much a pretty, young Olivia Rose costs.  

But I hated Mr. Wagner even more for marrying me. We got married in the summer of 1933, just after my seventeenth birthday. We had a quaint little church wedding. Daddy and Mamma were there, and Auntie Carol and Uncle Bucky, too, and cousins Sloane, Jeremy, and Geraldine. Mr. Wagner didn’t have much family left, just his brother Barty and Barty’s wife Emma Jean.  

I liked Emma Jean and Barty. They were much younger than Mr. Wagner but still older than I was. Emma Jean was about 33, and she had a baby in her belly. She hoped it was a girl, and said she wanted to name it Rosy, after me. I hoped she had a girl, too. It’d be nice to have something of a little sister around here.  

I hated Mr. Wagner and his smelly butcher shop. He came upstairs every night smelling of blood and sweat. It nauseated me to even look at him. Luckily, we did not share bed chambers. Yet. That was an arrangement set up by Barty and Emma Jean after the wedding.   

“Now, Al, just because that lil’ sweetheart’s your wife, it don’t make her your woman!” Emma Jean scolded him. “She’ll have her own bedroom until her eighteenth birthday.”  

I was grateful for Emma Jean’s courage to stick up for me. But my eighteenth birthday is coming up fast, and I know Alphonse Wagner was counting down the minutes until he could lie with me. And with a baby on the way, Emma Jean and Barty can’t protect me no more.  

I had to come up with a plan, and fast. I paced the apartment wildly looking for something, anything I could do to change my circumstances.   

I glared at our wedding portrait that hung above our mantle, my grim expression staring blankly back at me, while Mr. Wagner’s eyes stared at me hungrily. Even in a portrait, his eyes terrified me.  

I thought about running away but pushed the idea from my head. Daddy would send a search party after me in no time. And there’s no telling what Mr. Wagner would do to me when I got back. 

I thought about poisoning his food, but that also seemed rather difficult. Mr. Wagner was incredibly particular about his food, and even though I was his wife, he refused to eat anything that wasn’t cooked by him.   

I stared at the shotgun that rested on the mantle, just below the portrait. Its brassy barrel gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.   

Yes, I thought, perfect.   

Shot dead with his own hunting gun. I couldn’t imagine a more ironic end for such a beast as Mr. Wagner. He gloated about killing bucks, fawns, and does alike with that gun. The arrogant son of a bitch didn’t care about the hunting laws.  

“Meat is meat!” he’d chortle as he brought in his poached trophies.   

Staring at the gun, I had an idea that swam deliciously around in my mind. The master plan I had concocted felt undeniably genius.   

I’d dress up sweetly in that little white dress Mr. Wagner bought me for my eighteenth birthday. I’d put rose on my cheeks, put a small bit of vanilla perfume on, and I’d tie up my hair nice and pretty.  

“Good evening, Alphonse!” I’d drawl, leading him into the living room, “I know my eighteenth birthday isn’t for a few more days, but you’ve been so good to me. I wanted to give you your surprise early!”  

I was so giddy, imagining the gluttonous look on his porky face. He’d get all excited, rub his hands together like a fly preparing for a feast of filth.   

I’d lead him to the couch where blankets would be set up to catch the blood. He’d suspect other intentions, no doubt eager to get those blankets dirty with…other bodily fluids.  

My stomach knotted at the idea of intercourse with Mr. Wagner. His fat, greasy face inches away from my own. His meaty sausage fingers roaming my body. It made me so mad I almost wanted to go down to the shop and shoot him dead right then and there.   

But I didn’t. I waited patiently until the sun set and Mr. Wagner closed up shop. I waited in my pretty white dress, with my rosy cheeks and done up hair.  

When I heard Mr. Wagner’s heavy footsteps up the stairs, I could barely keep myself from giggling with excitement.  

“Olivia! You’re still awake? And you’re wearing….” Mr. Wagner’s greedy eyes trailed me up and down. 

“Good evening, Alphonse!” I sighed seductively.