The Wife of Death 2: My Friend Got a Black Eye

I have made my set of bad decisions and have been married to men who didn’t deserve to have a wife, as they did not know how to treat a woman with respect and love.

You can find the first part of this story here: Until Death Do Us Part ->

I was all alone when it came to protecting myself, but I did what had to be done and have no regrets. I had to repeat myself sometimes, but please believe me when I tell you that I am a good person who only did what I had to do in self-defence.

Some will say I have killed my husbands. Some will say I acted in self-defence. Others might think of me as a gold digger. All that is not important, and for me, it was always a matter of surviving and getting the most out of this life I have been given.

I made some bad choices every time I said yes, but at the time of the yes, I always felt it was the perfect choice. After some time, the marriages turned sour. I had to find solutions for those mistakes. I do not consider myself perfect — I never found the perfect solution, but I did find a solution, and I will stand by it. For the last four years, I have kept the promise I gave myself the last time; no man ever again.

I still remember the day Frida came over. I heard the knock on the door and got a shock when I opened the door and saw her black eye.

Quickly, I got her inside and locked the door as I thought someone was pursuing her. But her husband was home sleeping it off.

I made some coffee, and we sat down at the kitchen table for a talk. I wanted to know all about what happened, but Frida had come because she wanted to ask me about divorce and becoming a widow.

“I know you have been married a few times, and one of your men passed away, leaving you all alone. But you also told me you have been married a few times, so I guess you also tried a divorce. How is it and does it cost much?”

“You may be a little shocked now, but I will be honest. I have been married to more than one man, but I have never gotten a divorce. I buried my husbands.” I made a gesture to include my surroundings: “This is all paid for by what I have inherited.”

“Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. It must have been so difficult to lose one man, and you are now telling me you have lost two. I should never have bought it up.” Frida seemed genuinely surprised, and I didn’t correct her small mistake with the number.

“I survived. But what is that with you and your husband? I never thought he was that kind of man. Honestly, I thought the two of you had a good marriage.”

“We did. Before the pandemic, we both had a good income, and we enjoyed many of the same things. You know he lost his job early on and hasn’t been able to find a new one, so we live on my salary alone and our small savings.” Frida’s memories were positive, and talking about them made her smile.

“But he started drinking. He is not happy, and lately, he has changed. Sure, he had slapped me before, but that was when I was a fool and made stupid mistakes. Now it is more like he wants to hurt me. It has gone much worse.” I saw the tears appear in the corner of her eyes as she talked about this.

Frida was sad, and we spent the afternoon talking and relaxing. She felt safe here at my house. After some hours, she started to relax.

Frida is my oldest friend — we go back about four years, and I trust her completely. We met when I relocated to this country after my latest husband died.

In my home country, a newspaper suddenly started digging into my life and my previous marriages. I know it sounds bad, but to be honest, they made it sound worse than it is in reality.

The paper wrote about the nine marriages they found information about and how those husbands suddenly died. I know it sounds peculiar, but it just happened because they were bad men who didn’t treat me well. You could say they got what they deserved. I feel it was self-defence.

I inherited all my husbands and I am well off today, but that is just a coincidence and had nothing to do with what happened.

Frida said many times that all she wanted was to be happy, and she didn’t mind being poor with him as long as they would have a good marriage.

“I certainly do not want my husband dead, but sometimes I dream about how life could have been without a husband.” Frida had dreams.

“We could sail away and live a life as pirates,” I said.

Frida added, “We might meet Jack Sparrow. We will rob him of his dignity. I have had that dream for years.” And we laughed.

Girls just want to have fun.

I mentioned later that there are always ways to get rid of a man. Frida didn’t respond at first, but after we shared a bottle of Argentinian Merlot, we expressed ourselves more freely.

“If only there were a way to get one’s freedom back. But I cannot afford to live alone.”

“There are plenty of ways. We can always kill him. We can hire one to do it. You can divorce him and live here with me. To hell with it, we can even move far away from here.”

“It would be so much easier if he were just gone.” Frida dreamed, “But I could never do anything like that.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Oh my gosh, it is illegal, and I hate the look of blood.”

“What if it could be done without looking at blood, and nobody would suspect you had done anything? What if it were totally risk-free for you?”

“We cannot kill people. It is still illegal, and we will end up in jail for years.”

We opened one more bottle of wine, and in a few hours, we decided that if it was risk-free, it was meant to happen.

“I can tell you a secret. I know the perfect way. Not killing but to make him so ill that over time he might die.” I have no idea why I said that, but I could see Frida first was a little shocked, but then realised I just gave her a way out.

“Do you honestly know of a way?” Frida asked.

Sometimes we need to dare and risk falling, or we will forever fail. I got up and walked to my kitchen. In the top cabinet, in the very back, I pulled out a small box.

I removed the dust collected over the last four years from the lid before I slowly lifted it off. Inside there was a small brown glass with a metal lid, a small leather notebook with a red elastic band that kept it closed and finally an envelope with further papers.

I lifted the glass and looked at it. It was half full with a liquid, and it looked perfectly fine.

I looked at Frida: “Between us. Not a word to anyone ever. If you ever say anything, I will first deny it, and then I will come after you. Just know, I never give up.”

Frida looked surprised by the sudden serious tone in my voice. She nodded. I think we both suddenly felt very sober.

“One drop every morning or evening for five days. Wait two days. Two drops every day for five more days. Wait two days again. Three drops for five days.”

I continued: “You might need to do it one or two more times, but just increase with one extra drop each week. He will get ill, extremely ill giving it a few weeks. After the first week, you can stop, but after one week, there is no turning back unless you want a husband who will be ill for the rest of his life.”

Frida looked at me: “You have done this, haven’t you? That is why you have never gone through a divorce. And more than one time.”

“I would die for a G&T now,” I said. “You want one too?”

I woke up on the couch the next morning. My head was not all that happy, and the sunlight was like nuclear explosions in my brain as I opened my eyes.

The small brown bottle was gone.

Over the coming days, Frida and I talked over the phone. On Thursday, Frida told me how her husband was ill and had visited his doctor. Only three weeks later, she lost him to what the doctor called an unknown disease.

I quickly visited Frida and offered my help if I could do anything for her.

We sat in the living room, and Frida pushed the small brown bottle over to me again: “I won’t be needing this. Thank you for being my friend, but it all worked out in the end.”

When I looked, there was less left in the bottle, but maybe I remembered it wrong. We didn’t need to confirm that between us.

At home, I opened the box again and wrote in the small black notebook before I put the bottle and the notebook back into the box.

Frida arranged the most beautiful funeral. I was surprised that so many people came to church. It was a bright sunny day, and he was lowered down as Frida said a few words.

As we walked back to our cars, she held my arm: “I know this is not the right time, but I would love to have dinner with you tomorrow. I hope you will allow me to cook you a dinner. Please say yes.”

The next day, I rang the bell, and Frida opened the door. I could smell the most wonderful aromas coming from her kitchen. She had already opened a bottle of wine, and we soon had a glass in our hands.

“It is not a celebration. I wanted you to come over as I have something I want to discuss with you. But first, let’s eat and enjoy this wine. Trust me, it is more expensive than the one you opened last time,” Frida smiled.

We had a wonderful dinner, as we always have, and it was nice to see that my friend was not too devastated by the death of her husband. I know how she felt, as I have tried it a few times.

For me, it has always felt like a liberation. I never wanted anything bad to happen, but sometimes we cannot control these things. After the death of a husband, I felt like I got a new chance or a new beginning.

“I am so happy for everything you have done for me. I sincerely hope you know that. I will forever be in debt to you,” Frida said when we had cleared the table and were relaxing with a cup of coffee.

“I promised you we will never talk about this. I will keep my promise to you forever.” Frida lowered her voice: “I have a very good friend, and she is going through some bad times with her husband. He abuses her and treats her as a slave.” She looked me in the eyes: “I want to help her as you helped me. She deserves a better life.”

When I got home, I again opened the cabinet and pulled out the small box.