Compulsion (standard:drama, 1834 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Aug 30 2002	Views/Reads: 4216/2557	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A hen-pecked husband harbours a fantasy, to kill his wife.

Everything about this morning irritated Frankie Jardine. The bitter cold
wind, the crunching of the crisp snow underfoot, and the boisterous 
screaming of the children, who were tossing snowballs at one another. 
Not that Frankie loathed children; on the contrary. He often wondered 
how his annoying wife, June would have reacted if they were endowed 
with children of their own. Perhaps then, she would appreciate him, and 
not mock him on a daily basis. 

His gloved hands gripped the handles of the wheelchair tightly, as her
irksome voice penetrated his ears. 

“Hurry up, you useless limp-dicked good for nothing. Coronation Street
starts in five minutes, Francis.” 

Every opportunity she had, she would ridicule him about his impotency;
and how he hated her for calling him Francis. Frankie's my name, he had 
related to her time and time again. Francis was a name for a holy man, 
and a holy man, Frankie certainly was not. Okay, granted, he went to 
church every Sunday, but that was only because the dragon insisted. 

Frankie was a meek man by nature, his thinning hair and gaunt features
belonging to a man some twenty years older than his thirty-five years. 
The many years of caring for his unappreciative wife had taken their 
toll. 

He was lying on a beach in an exotic location; the sun scorching his
skin, as two gorgeous topless girls fed him grapes. They giggled in 
unison at the predicament of his loathsome wife, buried up to her neck 
in sand, the crabs picking at her withered scorched skin. 

“Francis! Get me out of here immediately. Jerry Springer starts in ten
minutes.” 

He laughed even louder, watching one of the crabs plucking out her
eyeballs, amid the screams. 

“Another grape, Frankie baby?” asked one of the girls. 

“Yes please.” 

“Faster, you imbecile!” 

The smiling man's daydream was terminated. Frankie resented her
intrusion, pulling a face behind her back as he quickened his pace. It 
had not always been like this. Oh no, he had married June some fifteen 
years ago, and she had resembled one of those beach babes that he so 
often daydreamed about. Not any more. She was overweight, and her 
distinctive, bushy, red hair was now greasy and lank. Her once elfin 
features were no more, instead replaced by a treble chin. 

After her accident seven years ago, he had no choice but to give up his
job at the steelworks. Now that was a man's job, but she had made him 
what he is today; a hen-pecked, feeble manservant with a compulsion to 
murder his wife. 

He was at her beck and call twenty-four hours a day. He would bathe her,
take her for a walk, feed her and even carry her to the toilet. He 
awaited the day when she would ask him to wipe her fat arse. 

“Francis! This bloody soup is too hot. You know it's three minutes in
the microwave, you seedless shit.” 

“Yes dear, sorry, dear.” 

“What I pay you for I don't know. A real man would not live off his
wife's income.” 

“But dear, it's because of you that I gave up my job.” 

“Shut up! Eastenders is about to begin and you know what that means
don't you, Francis?” 

“Your cocoa, of course.” 

He poured the boiling milk into the mug and his eyes focused on the weed


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