A Snore Too Far

It was just after 2:30am when Anatole realised he could no longer endure Amaryllis’s snoring. She had been snoring solidly for more than four hours, while poor Anatole had slept fitfully, covering his ears with a pillow to block out the noise. It had done him no good; he couldn’t sleep that way.

Anatole knew it was only a matter of time before he went off the deep end. He lay beside Amaryllis like a ticking time bomb. Something suddenly snapped within.

He got up and hastened from the bedroom to the kitchen and slammed the door behind him. He flicked on the light switch and sat on a small red stool, clasping his ears, with Amaryllis’s interminable snores still plaguing his mind.

It wasn’t as though he had any real aversion toward snoring; he snored himself at times. No, it was just Amaryllis’s. She had stated softly at first, a gentle rhythm he could handle. Then gradually over a period of weeks, a deeper bass-like rhythm had begun also, somewhere deep within her stomach he imagined. The bed had seemed to vibrate gently and the dissonance caused by these two conflicting rhythms had been the beginning of the end of their happy marriage.

Anatole unclasped his ears and took a glass from the cupboard, filled it with water then drained it in one gulp. His left hand trembled as he slowly slid open the cutlery draw and took out the recently sharpened carving knife. He could see his puffy face in the stainless steel blade.

It emphasised his Roman nose, jutting chin and puffy lips and portrayed a face forged by sleepless nights. His rats nest hair obscured his shell-like ears.

“Meow!”

Sigrid, their tortoiseshell cat, announced her presence, interrupting Anatole’s thoughts. She lifted her tail and trotted toward the refrigerator, sat down and stared pitifully at Anatole.

She was hungry again. She always seemed hungry, no matter what time of day or night it was, and had become somewhat of an expert in the art of emotional blackmail. Sometimes it was hard to tell if they really owned Sigrid or if Sigrid owned them. He ignored the cat and got up, holding the knife outstretched, like a drawn sword, and paced back to the bedroom.

“It’s the only way, she won’t divorce.” He consoled himself, yet as he re-entered, his stomach churned.

Anatole neared the bed and lifted the knife, but the invisible force of love betrayed his intentions and he was unable to let it fall. He stood there with the knife held vaguely above her.

Amaryllis awoke unexpectedly and turned on the bedside light. She saw him standing there, holding the knife, and screamed.

Panic overcame hesitation and, defying the force, Anatole plunged the knife into her, over and again, till she breathed no more. He watched on without pity as her body went rigid then relaxed.
Her eyes closed for the final time.

In all his days, he had never thought her snoring would have pushed him so far. Yet there her immortal body lay the sole witness of his brutal slaying.

Anatole dropped the knife then reached for his inhaler, on the duchess, and squirted twice. It calmed him slightly, but he felt far from complacent. He placed the inhaler in one of the robe’s side pockets and continued staring at her.

“Okay, Anatole. Let’s take things one step at a time. Firstly, get rid of the body.”

He removed the covers and slowly hauled her out of bed, with a great deal of difficulty; she was of a larger build than he was. Gripping her under the armpits he started dragging her to the only place he could think of.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, trudging down the hallway with Amaryllis in tow. The echoing snores continued in his mind.

Finally he reached the cellar door, turned the key clockwise and dragged her sagging body to the cold, dank bottom. There wasn’t much down there, just shelves of old books he seldom got round to reading and parts of projects he seldom got round to working on.

He placed the body down momentarily and attended to a pile of bricks, which sat at the far end. They too were covered in cobwebs and had become home to large spiders, which scampered in all directions. Normally his fear of spiders would have sent him running a mile, but his fear of jail seemed more pressing.

Anatole cleared a space. He dragged her over, covered her with bricks, then dusted his hands on a cloth and ambled back upstairs, locking the door behind him.

He started back down the hallway but came to an abrupt halt as a sudden cold shiver ran down his spine. The numbness slowly dwindled and the reality of his atrocity began sinking in, causing him grief. Tears dribbled down his pallid cheeks.

“God, what have I done?” he cried, falling to his knees and burying his face in his hands despairingly.

Come on Anatole, get a grip of yourself! a voice sounded, somewhere within his distraught mind" You can’t think when you’re upset."

“You’re right,” he admitted, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

Anatole got to his feet and continued along the hallway with his head downcast. He snatched the leather jacket off the hook to the left of the front door and went out for a late-night/early-morning stroll, like he always did when things got too much for him. He found such strolls therapeutic, but kept them to a minimum after dusk, what with the ever-increasing neighbourhood crime rate and shortage of police.

A frigid breeze swept ominously from the east, and cut his lightly clad legs. The sound of a distant motorbike echoed from one empty street to the next and down the darkened alleys, inhabited by nocturnal patched teen-ages that prowled like hyenas waiting for luckless victims to happen by.
Heralded by the large tower clock that sat in the town square one hour passed and another took its place.

The sound of barking came from across the road. He turned and gazed at his neighbour’s restless hound dog. He had to smile at how Amaryllis’s snores must have drowned out the dog’s noise, until now he had not noticed it. He stopped at the top of the street, turned and headed back.

A shoe flew out one of his neighbour’s window and smacked the dog’s head. Choice words were hollered, with threats of dire consequences to follow if the dog did not quit its infernal racket. The barking quickly ceased.

Anatole smiled and felt a little better knowing he was not the only one with shattered nerves. He walked up his cobblestone driveway, eased the front door open and stepped back into the hallway.
The house seemed sullen and sad, as if already mourning the absence of Amaryllis. He locked the front door, hung the leather jacket back on its hook and hesitantly made his way back to the bedroom, in silence.

His uneasiness grew at the sight of the tangled bed covers, blood stains on the crumbled mats, and Amaryllis’s framed photograph, which sat upon the dressing table. Her placid smile grieved him.

Though weary and desperately in need of sleep, he was unable to bring himself to lie on the bloodstained sheets. Instead he simply pulled one end of the drawn drapes and stared thoughtfully out the streaked window. His stomach churned again and vision became blurred as his atrocity replayed itself over and again in his mind. He hung his head in shame. Then just when he thought things could not possibly get worse, they did.

A noise slowly started to fill the room, which caused his hair to stand on end. Spasmodic at first, then zealous in abundance.

That cursed dissonance!

Again he clasped his ears. No good: the ghost of Amaryllis’s snores was upon him.

“Stop!” he cried.

Yet something told him they would not stop till he turned himself in, The snoring got louder and drove him insane.

Finally he succumbed to his desire to confess and fled to the hallway, tripping over Sigrid, who seemed to appear under his feet from nowhere, on his way. He crashed to the floor, skidding on his hands.

“You scrawny, free-loading, furniture-tearing, flea-distributing, tortoiseshell vermin from hell!” exploded Anatole.

The cat spat at him with disapproval and tore off as though a thousand demons were chasing it.
Anatole struggled to his feet, dusted himself with is hands and then picked up the phone and rang the police. A man with a deep voice ansered and patiently listened to his confession.

Head hung low, he walked back to the kitchen, sat upon the stool and turned on the jug. The house was silent. Too silent. Not he usual sort of silence, but more the silence one may hear within a tomb; cold, uninviting, arresting all noise.
Only the ticking wall clock and boiling jug dared challenge its authority.

He turned on the transistor. “Au fond du temple saint” -act one- flowed through the single speaker and sent a cold shiver down his spine, for it was at that very opera he had first met Amaryllis.

She had looked so beautiful: her golden hair glistening in the spotlights, her hazel eyes staring at him so calmly, cherry lips glossy and soft baby-like skin, free of any blemishes. Her silken gown had given her an almost regal appearance and highly fashionable jewelry spoke volumes for her standing in society.

But it had not been her wealth that had prompted him to finally propose one evening on the ferry; he himself had not exactly been strapped for cash. Instead it had been the kind caring nature she had shown and the way she had always made him feel loved, even the times he had been out-of-sorts and grumpy. Sure, they were diametrically opposed to one another, but as they say-opposites attract.

Anatole muted the radio and drew a heavy sigh, He could feel another asthma attack coming on, and he frisked his robe for the inhaler. It was then that he discovered the hole in the pocket, where it had no doubt dropped out. Ignoring the boiling jug, he got down from the stool and hurried out the kitchen.

Back into the bedroom he staggered, wheezing and gasping, searching frantically and finally falling to his knees.

“Is this retribution for my sin?”

No reply.

His raw eyes were drawn to the bed as it began to vibrate and the dissonance was reborn.

He got to his feet, still gasping for breath.

“I already confessed, what more do you want?”

Still no reply.

Something moved under the covers. Amaryllis? He hesitantly paced forward then stripped the bed, revealing a very startled cat. It looked curiously at him then licked one of its paws.

Anatole laughed and stroked Sigrid affectionately.
Sigrid purred the bed vibrated; Sigrid purred the bed vibrated.

A slow dawning horror, from within, suddenly arrested Anatole’s laughter. Only then did he realise his fatal mistake: that it had not been Amaryllis’s snoring that had vexed him. It had been Sigrid’s purring.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

ENDS HERE

first written 1997

peterelbee