The Terrible Story to Red All About
You've come all this way for a confession, to "tie up lose ends" as they say in detective stories. I think you should avoid bad tropes. But, I've made tea and sandwiches with all the crusts cut off. The children are away at school so its just you and I for the afternoon. Let's bring everything out to the garden, its such a lovely day out there. It will feel like a garden party - white linens, red roses, a light breeze.
I love wearing red. Someone can tell you the scientific reason why red turns dark black in old photographs and movies. I believe real red, the darker red, especially, is dark at heart. Film shows its true colour.
I love a dark red, empire red I've seen it called, even as a child. I made my parents uncomfortable. They gave me what I wanted and avoided me. I loved the freedom, the lack of censor and judgement. I did everything my way. I learned so much about getting my own way too. However, "She's just a child" can only work for so long. I found it an exciting challenge to work around. I was young, attractive, my family were of good reputation, professionals of fine standing in the community. All elements in my favour. Looking confident with a vibrant red lipstick, being pleasant, listening to people talk about themselves, can open so many doors for you. It did for me.
This is all more than you wanted to know, you asked about Frank. Are you feeling a little uncomfortable?
Frank was an ordinary man. I thought he had potential, and he was easy to look at. People liked Frank. I thought Frank would be a nice, easy, stable husband. So I said yes when he asked. Frank thought I was a great asset on his arm, at his beck and call, at least when someone important was there to see it. I always wore red, with red lipstick, red shoes and deep red rubies too. Now and then a spicy little hat. I enjoyed wearing red, but it became a uniform, a tool for Frank when he wanted a promotion at work, then favour from his new boss.
The more Frank got, the more he thought he should have. Still, if he had just kept his pants on, literally, I think we really could have grown old together. Poor silly Frank. He thought he could blame me when he began showing up with all the tell tale signs: lipstick on his collar, late nights and days away, pink panties under the seat of his car... Frank said I wasn't a good wife. His version of what that was supposed to be.
Expectations can be so off track, so sexist. When I should have been home baking cookies I was out, making my own money. When I should have been washing his clothes I was buying new clothes and having a good time wearing them. When I should have been limp and waiting in his bed I was traveling. I didn't sleep with anyone else but I didn't sleep with him every night either.
Frank said I was misleading, just a tease in a red dress. He complained about women not having enough sex drive. I think women are underwhelmed and afterward there's just more laundry. I wasn't his maid, or his Mother. Why is it assumed the Mother is the nurturing soul who stays home to do laundry, make dinners, sew, cook, and clean?
Frank fooled around and thought he could pass the buck, for all of it, to me. Frank was wrong. I'd been behaving badly myself for so long I knew better. I blamed Frank, not the women and girls he spent time and money with. I didn't make that mistake.
Frank had stepped out of line and been caught. Like a child, or a dog, he needed some training to correct his behaviour. That's how it began. I'd wear shiny red suits, high heeled boots, and... The rest is more than you need to know. Retraining Frank took time, energy, and patience. I ran out of patience and had so many other places to use my time and energy. Frank became just a body to dispose of.
Does the how really matter? Why do you want to find the body, that seems kind of ghoulish.
Your lips are looking blue. Feeling the urge to cough?
Red is such a wonderful colour, but if it gets on your clothes it tends to turn the red into black. I wore white today, it can be bleached back to white. You can't do that with red.
Written by me. I sent this to an editor of a podcast. Nothing back from her. I think it needs a rewrite, to take all of this as half of a dialogue and add two people having this conversation. Fleshing it all out into more than a narrative. But... I don't want to rewrite it. I often feel the fiction I write is as-is once I've written it. Probably silly, not very productive as far as getting published. I don't think it matters. The story is told, as is.