Human Waste

 

I had grown tired of her little games. Agitated, I pushed her into the hole. She yelped for a moment as she fell, and I heard a snap. Everything fell quiet as I stared down at her. Sightlessly, she stared back at me. I hadn’t meant to do this. Immediately, I felt remorse course through me. I fell to my knees beside the pit, grief wracking my body as I wept. What had I done?

This wasn’t what I’d had in mind when I agreed to ‘Until Death Do Us Part.’ Of course, I hadn’t consented to her cheating on me over and over again, either. We play the hand we’re dealt, and I had just been dealt a losing hand. My only option was to bluff my way out. In order to do that, I had to calm down and figure out how this had happened.

For the past week, the septic tank had been backing up. We’d called Roto-Rooter to see if we could have it pumped. They had instructed me to find the hatch to the tank, and then they’d come and pump it out. Human waste is a fact of life, and as disgusting as it can be it still needs to be dealt with – just like her body.

I’d gone to the library and checked out some books on septic systems so that I could learn what needed to be done and how the system worked. It basically came down to separating solids from liquids, and then letting the liquids go out the drainpipe to filter through the ground and back into the water table. I didn’t plan on drinking well water ever again.

The solids would settle at the bottom and the bacteria inherent to excrement would then begin to break the solids down into liquid. You’re supposed to have your septic tank pumped out every two or three years, but it had been at least twice that since ours had been cleaned out. The previous owners had been something less than adamant about home maintenance.

For the past eight years, I’ve worked at Schearer’s Sawmill in Jasper, Alabama as the plant manager. It’s a good company, if a small one. We work with many kinds of wood: pine, oak, maple, poplar, and even cherry wood on occasion. There are benefits to being the plant manager. For example, I get Life, Health & Dental insurance, a 401(k) plan, and every once in a while, my good friend the owner lets me borrow equipment for personal projects.

If it were a corporation, using company supplies for a personal matter would never be permitted. It was small-town southern hospitality that made it possible. It was ironic that the thing we’d been arguing about was moving to the city: I had wanted to take a position with another mill in Alabaster. They were offering more money and a better health plan. She didn’t want to move away from her family. Now she never would.

The in-laws had our daughter for the summer; a fact for which I was now extremely grateful, though it had been another sore point between my wife and me. The house was up for sale as part of the divorce, and we both wanted to increase its value so we’d have more money to split. We also hoped that if we spent more time doing things together, we might be able to work things out. At least, that had been my hope. Things would never be the same after today.

I knew what I had to do. I couldn’t go to jail. I had a child to raise – our child. I knew our daughter would never understand that it was an accident. More importantly, neither would the police. We were reconciling in the middle of a messy divorce. No one would believe the simple truth: She had fallen into a hole I had dug to fix the septic tank and snapped her neck on the handles of the hatch. It didn’t matter that I had pushed her, did it? No. No, of course not. I’d never laid a hand on her before that moment. Doesn’t that count for something?

I slowed my breathing and rose from the ground. There was dirt on my hands and knees. I still hadn’t called Roto-Rooter back to let them know I’d found the hatch. I still had time. I had to steel myself for the task ahead.

We had been clearing out some of the forest in the back of the house before the septic tank had begun backing up, and as a result, I had borrowed a woodchipper from the mill. No one even knew it was gone yet. It would be the perfect tool for the job.

I grabbed some blankets from inside the house and laid them out on the ground next to the woodchipper’s chute, one on top of the other. Then, above the blankets, I spread out a roll of painter’s plastic. It was my hope that the layers of plastic and fabric would capture any moisture the woodchipper would shoot out.

I then lifted the shell of my lover and put her on the plastic, where I began to dismember her with a jigsaw and a steak knife. I did not have to worry a great deal about discovery as our yard was fenced in and wherever there might be a crack to peep through, my wife had grown magnificent vines of Wisteria to preserve our privacy.

First, I removed her arms and legs. I tried not to think of the many times I had held her hands or covered her thighs in soft kisses before moving on to other ground. I tried not to think of how radiant she looked in red. She was drenched in red now, and she did not look at all radiant.

Before I removed her head, I bent low and gave her a parting kiss so that I could remember the taste of her lips: French vanilla with a tinge of ash from her last cigarette. I tried not to think of all the times I had kissed her lips before, or of the other men who had done the same.

Lastly, I removed her pelvis from her torso. I tried not to think of the womb that had birthed my child. I tried not to think of the magical nook her waist made where I rested my arm and held her at night. I struggled not to think of the soft curve of her breasts and hips. I tried and failed and wept bitter tears as I split the love of my life into sections.

When I was done, I turned on the woodchipper and began inserting body parts. Bones and flesh became small fragments of white covered in red pulp, which collected on the plastic sheet I’d spread out for just this purpose. My wife was now nothing more than a pile of ground flesh waiting for disposal. Human waste is a fact of life, and as disgusting as it can be it still needs to be dealt with.

After I had finished running her body through the woodchipper, I took a crowbar and forced the hatch of the septic tank open. With that done, I carefully dragged the plastic sheet and blankets over to the hatch and slid the bloody remains into the hole. Then, taking a stick, I stirred the offensive mixture together until the bloody pulp was indistinguishable from the offal. It was almost as if the mother of my child had never been.

Most of the task was done, though it had taken several hours. Things might have gone faster if I’d been calmer, but anyone would stumble under such circumstances. Next, I dragged out the water hose and sprayed down the woodchipper and the plastic sheet her remains had been on. For good measure, I also sprayed by the septic tank’s hatch to wash away any remnants of gore I may have missed.

Then I gathered some lumber and set a bonfire, upon which I burned the blankets and the plastic sheet. I also ran the stick and some wood through the chipper and burned that, just to be sure the chipper was clean. It should be a few days before anyone notices that she’s gone. I’ll report her missing tomorrow after Roto-Rooter comes to pump out the septic tank, just to play it safe.

Before today, I used to wonder whether or not I was going to Hell when I die. Now I know it. It’s something I can live with, though. My wife didn’t have any morals when it came to relationships. If my wife or my in-laws had gotten custody of my daughter, she’d grow up just like her mother had. I have to be the one to raise my daughter, or she won’t learn the difference between right and wrong.