The morning was still dark when he opened the door and looked upon the figure with the hollow eyes. He stood there, unable to believe what he saw, unable to look away. It was too surreal to be true — it had to be impossible.

“Muriel?” He inquired, though he already knew the answer. It had been a year, and if she looked different, it was probably his mind playing tricks.

She said nothing, simply stood in the entrance until Eric moved aside and allowed her in.

He watched her shuffle ahead of him. As usual, she was barefoot. Muriel never wore footwear inside the house. She preferred the softness of carpet beneath her feet. For his part, Eric had always loathed the sight of her dirty soles and cracked heels when she rested her feet on their leather ottoman. It was disgusting.

When she’d left, he’d replaced their carpet with wood flooring. That morning, in the light of the single porch light and the predawn gloom, she hadn’t noticed the change. Or perhaps she was keeping her dislike of it in reserve?

Watching her walk along the hallway through to the lounge, Eric groaned. Given the choice, he’d have preferred not to follow her, but some things were unavoidable. Besides, he’d done nothing wrong — he’d only defended himself that night.

Overcoming his indecision, Eric found his resolve and followed her.

She’d taken a seat on one of the barstools they’d bought the week before their wedding. Eric wondered why he’d remembered that insignificant detail. Anyway, they’d barely got them home before she’d announced that she hated them. It was typical of her, he’d told her that afternoon. Or, more accurately, what he’d actually said was, “You fucking wanted them. Now you can put up with them because I’m not taking the bloody things back to the store.

Their argument had lasted the entire weekend. He’d been relieved on the Monday when he’d returned to the relative tranquillity of his workplace.

That night, on his way home, Eric had hoped that the subject of the barstools would have been forgotten. They’d never fought in the early days of their relationship. Unfortunately, the peace hadn’t lasted beyond their first anniversary.

When he arrived home, there was no kiss and make-up, just a resumption of hostilities. Twenty-four hours had made their fighting more spiteful than ever.

“For fuck’s sake, get over it, Muriel. If you’re still not happy with the barstools, you can return them yourself. Just don’t expect me to do it for you.”

Christ, how they’d fought that night. He’d never told anyone how bad it had been. Would any man be game to admit that his wife was capable of beating him up?

It was when she’d thrown the cut-glass figurine at him that he’d finally lost control and retaliated. The figurine had been a wedding gift from his mother. She’d aimed it at his head, and he knew she’d done it deliberately. Muriel never did anything by chance.

The memory was much like a thick fog to be brushed aside. Eric returned to the problem of her unexpected reappearance.

“Well — what are you here for?” He’d invited her to answer, though he doubted she would. Her reappearance was intentional, and he needed to know why.

Usually Eric loved the silence of his own company. He put it down to Muriel and her non-stop complaining. She’d never shut up. Now, though, she was silent, giving him the same vacant look and hollow eyes she’d had when she arrived.

“So — what the fuck are you here for?”

Having asked the question, Eric waited. His throat was dry, and he needed a glass of water. But it was as though his feet were stuck to the floor, and all he could do was stand there looking at her. The trouble was, doing that, he couldn’t help recalling that night.

He remembered when the figurine had struck his head, the pain, his anger. He’d had enough. Eric had warned her about her temper, drawn a line that she’d cross that night.

“Bitch!” That was what he’d said that last time they’d been together.

Now he saw Muriel’s sideways glance towards the coffee table and the figurine.

“No, you don’t.”

He’d anticipated her move, his hand grabbing the cut glass ornament before she could.

She hadn’t moved — only him.

Holding it out of her reach, his sweaty fingers gripped the glass. Smashing it against her skull was easier than he’d imagined. It was like cracking walnuts with a rock. Her body slumped to the floor, and Eric knelt over her. His arm rose and fell as blow after blow smashed her skull to a sickening pulp.

His breath came in gasps as he looked down at the bloody mess, and he recognised the absurdity of what he’d done. He’d killed his wife twelve months ago to the day — and now, on the anniversary, he’d done it all over again.

He was a fucking idiot — it had been bad enough disposing of her body the first time. Cutting it up and burying the pieces separately had taken a day. Then he'd spent another night covering his tracks and getting rid of any trace of what he’d done. The place had stunk of bleach for weeks.

So, how the fuck had she found her way back?

He knew he’d killed her and now he’d have to do the same thing all over again.

Eric remained staring at his bloodied hands and the mess of brain and bone he was kneeling beside — until…

He jumped when the doorbell rang for the first time. He waited, holding his breath. Seconds passed, and the bell rang again, accompanied by a fist pounding on the wooden door.

A voice called out.

“Police — open up.”

Here is a meaningful story from Rick Allen

The Things We Keep

The Anniversary was originally published in First Line Fiction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.