The sunlight filtered through the threadbare curtains onto the small table near Mrs. Abernathy’s floral print chair. Her teacup was kept full by Nora, the house girl. A fresh teabag was deposited neatly into the cup every few hours and there was a neat saucer of sugar cubes next to the small delicate porcelain cup which graced her lips every fifteen seconds.

Mrs. Abernathy looked at her watch. It was nine o’clock, time for her morning constitutional. Her aluminum walker had tennis balls for its rear feet, and they made a chuffing sound as they slid along the Berber carpet.

Usually, she had Nora help her in the bathroom, but today she was feeling better than she had in months, perhaps even years. Today was the day that she was going to kill Henry. The old bastard had been wasting away in the back bedroom for the better part of a year.

When she’d finished with her business in the bathroom, she went to the kitchen, looked out the window at Nora in the garden, and grabbed a knife from the wooden block.

Henry pulled himself out of the bed that held his shape in its mattress. He realized he stunk, realized everyone except the nurses dreaded coming in here, and realized it was the bitch’s fault. If she would only spend the money for full time nurses, he would be better by now.

His bedsores screamed as he pulled on his robe. They were another inconvenience that could have been avoided with proper care. All the old bitch cared about anymore was her tea and her bowels.

Henry pulled his old hickory cane out from under the bed. He was going to make sure the old bitch never had to worry about shitting or sipping ever again.

He shuffled over to the head of the stairs, his knees popping and his back cracking. The carpet felt wonderful on his bare feet, as if it was grass on a summer day.

When he looked down the stairs, he was not surprised to see the bitch clinging to the railing with a knife in her hands and a malicious grin on her face.

Henry raised the cane above his head and started down the steps.

“C’mon you bitch. Show me what you got.”

“I’m coming for ya’ you old sack of skin.”

Henry got down three steps and lost his footing. He tried to grab the railing, but his arthritic fingers slipped against the polished hardwood and he started falling. His wife saw him coming, but she was too slow to move out of the way. He crashed into her and they both fell down the remaining steps, their brittle bones cracking audibly.

By the time they reached the bottom, Henry’s back was broken and his wife had impaled herself with the knife.

Nora found them an hour later, tangled together at the base of the stairs, a pool of blood around them, growing sticky in the soft morning sunlight.