Darcy Wants Hank Dead - a flash fiction story

“Darcy, you didn’t even call 911,” he said, staring at me with squinty eyes. It was a delayed reaction, over an hour after his first episode ended.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” I told him. “It was just a little heartburn.” But the truth is, I wanted Hank dead, and he knew it.

For years, I just wanted Hank, or at least Hank’s desire for me, so genuine. I had sex with men before, and boys before the men, and men before the boys, but they were crude and careless. They took my willingness for granted, like I had no say, or they were doing me a favor.

Hank was different. With his big, bear body, he was the only one who ever made me feel feminine. He never groaned about my weight when I sat on his lap or made jabs that my waist was wider than my bust. And he didn’t criticize every single thing I ate like my mother. In fact, we indulged together. Our relationship offered that rare freedom.

But, like everything else in my life, it eventually turned to shit.

It started when I wanted a baby. I stopped taking the pill and waited, but nothing happened. My doctor shook her head and said in her Indian accent, “You must lose the weight if you want a healthy pregnancy."

Hank tried to be supportive, I guess, but I suspect part of him was afraid to be a father. As a former foster child, he'd seen too much. Plus, although he was a pro at carbo-loading, dieting was nowhere near his wheelhouse. But we both tried for a while, right up until the holidays, when those bags of leftover Halloween candy took us down. By New Year, we looked heavier than ever. I’m not sure how much we gained. We didn’t own a scale.

Probably another leftover from his childhood, Hank constantly worried about having enough money. His position as a program manager paid well, but he carried a lot of student debt. Two blown knees ended his college football career and scholarship by the end of his sophomore season. The college was expensive, but transferring meant leaving friends who were like family, and graduating later from a lower-tier school.

I never made diddly squat as a part-time preschool assistant. The full-time teachers earned more per hour and had insurance. I wanted to go back to the community college and at least finish my associate’s degree, but Hank argued that we should pay off his loans before taking on more debt. That could take forever.

“You’ll hit the jackpot when I die!” Hank joked. Hank worked for a large corporation with excellent benefits, including health insurance for both of us and an automatic life insurance policy for him. Most guys in their thirties wouldn’t even think of their mortality, but Hank’s doctor had been warning him. All his numbers, blood pressure, cholesterol, and sugar, were sky high, especially alarming for someone his age. His massive weight took a toll on his heart in addition to his knees. I laughed with him at first. I guess they call that gallows humor. However, as time passed and things changed, I began to daydream about that policy.

Hank’s morbid obesity reduced his sex drive, or at least his ability to act on any he had. We still lingered in bed most weekends, but he made no attempts, even when sex scenes laced our movie selections. The hope of getting pregnant seemed lost. Sometimes we argued, but most of the time it hurt too much to talk about it.

One Saturday morning, I was reading the Craigslist personal want ads aloud, just for kicks. I felt particularly fed up that day. Maybe it was hormonal. I told Hank, “I should offer my services to someone else since you’re clearly not interested.”

“You would never,” he said.

“It would be a win-win for me,” I told him. We went back and forth, and he played along, saying he would be my bouncer in case someone overstayed his welcome. I called his bluff and placed an ad. I don’t think either of us thought we would actually go through with it until we did.

It was easy money, and weirdly exciting, too. We kept it a secret from everyone, of course. Hank set up cameras at the front door and in the bedroom. In the beginning, Hank would meet the guys and escort them back to the bedroom. Most of them were inexperienced, nervous, and sweaty. The meet-ups were usually over pretty quickly. Hank turned a few away because they seemed too skeevy. Another guy took one look at Hank and ran off. We both burst out laughing, called it a night, and ordered a deluxe pizza. It was a freaky game we were playing.

Things became too routine when we started having repeat customers. It was like another day at work, the drudgery of attending to the needs of other humans. And I had to do everything. Hank stopped answering the door and just monitored the cameras. His expanding weight and size limited not only his mobility and activity in our side gig but in all areas. I had to drive him to and from work because he couldn’t fit behind the steering wheel. The passenger seat was permanently broken-in to accommodate someone his size.

One regular guy was different, though. Clyde booked every Friday and started bringing a little something to sweeten the deal. Hank didn’t seem to notice, and I didn’t tell him. Hank’s bio mom had been a junkie, and food was the only mood-altering substance he tolerated.

I don’t know if it was Clyde, the cocaine, or losing weight, but something inside me triggered a desire to break free. As I did all the shopping, which was endless, there were ample opportunities for me to slip away and meet at Clyde’s apartment, far from the cameras. He didn’t pay me, of course, not with money anyway. Clyde wanted me to stop having sex with other men.

“Why do you let Hank put you out like that? I would never do that to you,” he said.

I explained our financial problems and my goal to finish school, but he said there had to be another way.

Hank had a second episode one Sunday morning in June, right after getting out of bed. I heard him gasp, stumble, and fall. Despite the loud crash, I kept cleaning the kitchen with music playing, pretending to be unaware. Eventually, Hank called out to me. His rounded face looked ghostly: pale white with dark dilated eyes. I offered to take him to the hospital, but he said he was too tired. Closing his eyes, he mumbled, “I’ll call my doc on Monday.”

I fantasized about escaping with Clyde. I almost told him about Hank’s episodes and the life insurance policy, but I didn’t. If my childhood experiences had taught me anything, it was the ability and value of, to quote my step-father, “keeping secrets secret.”

It was a waiting game. Months passed by without an episode. Then, one August afternoon, when the air-conditioner struggled like everyone else, I heard a thundering boom from the bathroom. The door was ajar, and I could see Hank’s body, face and feet up, on the floor next to the toilet.

After about five minutes, I stepped in and stood over him. His neck was crooked, and his head was wedged against the dull white bathtub. At first, he looked dead, but then his lashes fluttered, and our eyes connected. He seemed to be silently pleading.

His eyes closed again, but he was still breathing. I slumped against the door, sighed, and closed my eyes too, as if waiting for the sound of an approaching siren.

The End

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.