“Do not allow evil into your heart. It will make a home there.”
~ Hercule Poirot, “Death on the Nile” (1978)
Waves were chasing each other breaking to shore, licking her feet up to her ankles, with sand crinkling beneath her toes. The sun was hanging heavy in the west, saying its final goodbyes to welcome the darkness of night, yellow-red-orange glow reflecting into the blue waters as it gradually vanish beneath the horizon.
But all of the beauty mother nature could offer was lost to her for all of her focus was on the metal urn in her hands. The urn that held remains of her beloved.
Her beloved who she had thought would take her away from her father. Who had inadvertently sent her mother to an early grave. Had throttled what little self confidence she had. Ruled over her with his power and his fist. Her beloved who she had killed.
Violence was a familiarity to her. To her father, she was never enough. Not pretty enough. Not good enough at school. Not tall enough. Not graceful enough. Just never enough. And her mother’s effort to stop him had rather given her a taste of his strength too.
Then, one day she met her beloved. A young man she had thought would swoop her off of her feet and give her happiness, like those stories she had read in the books. She was young, with low self-esteem, and easily impressed. Yes, her own Prince Charming! she had thought. Until the night of her wedding, the first time her beloved laid hands of her as the beginning of her growing new sets of bruises.
As time went by, her father died and her mother passed away. The tiny, little evil seed burrowed inside of her had finally started to bloom. A bit late and slowl, but surely it bloomed. And yet she persevered.
Then, last month she had found out that a new life was growing inside her small, frail body. That knowledge she kept to herself, waiting for her beloved being in a better mood to tell him. Instead he added her collection of bruises that night. So it solidified her resolves; he had to go.
It was simple, actually. All the crime procedural shows she had been indulging in, added by the books she had read, it was surprisingly easy for her to construct the perfect plan. And with a calmness she had never thought she had possessed, she had made him gone. She killed her beloved. He had died in his sleep, the big oaf, of sleep apnea, they had said. The police was such a joke.
That was the reason she was on the beach on her own. With the little shrimp inside her, who now had started showing as a itsy-bitsy bump in her belly. And the metal urn in her hands. Silently she opened the cap and upturned it. The ashes poured out; some went straight into the water and got washed away, some got tangled into the wind and got carried elsewhere.
It was over. No tears, no remorse. She didn’t even think of saying goodbye. He was gone and they would be safe. That was all that mattered.