Lips on mine. Velvety. Familiar. The taste of Gab’s minty breath leaves me with a tingly sensation. I open my eyes, just a crack, enough to see her leaning over me, the nostalgic mix of honey, vanilla and patchouli fills my nostrils. She pulls her feathered black hair away from her face and smiles. The fine lines around her eyes wink at me.
“Happy anniversary, Neve. Your present is on the kitchen bench. I hope you love it as much as I did creating it,” she says. And then she’s gone. The slam of the front door, a punctuation mark on our one sided conversation.
I push the blue and pink tartan quilt off me, reluctant to leave the cosy warmth of our bed, but intrigued by her words. On the kitchen bench, an envelope sits perched against the side of a mug, the words NEVE written on the front in bold print. I rip it open impatiently. I am a kid on Christmas morning.
3 years ago you stole my heart
You had me from the very start
You smiled at me with that sexy look
Your first clue is in your favourite book
I race over to the bookshelf, scanning the spines like a machine in a factory. A squeal of delight escapes me as I lay my hands on Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Flicking through the book, an envelope falls out and in my haste to open it, I rip it down the middle.
“Shit!”
Like a jigsaw puzzle, I rearrange the paper to make sense of the clue.
Our second year was full of bliss
Oh how I treasured every kiss
You proposed to me on bended knee
Your next clue is on our beloved tree
Sunlight smacks me in the face as I sprint over to where we planted the peach tree. It was our first big purchase together and boy did we treasure it. Water. Mulch. Fertiliser. Repeat. She was our baby. I still remember her first blossoms — milky Neapolitan ice cream.
An envelope is stapled to her trunk. Right in the middle, with thick, heavy duty, stainless steel staples. I frown. Why would she put staples in our baby? Forcing my breath out hard and fast, I carefully pull the envelope off and take out the clue.
Our third year was riddled with lies
You kept me like a big fat prize
Our engagement was a nasty joke
The next clue is near the artichoke
I stare at the clue. The words are replaced by swirling colours of magenta and purple. I shake my head frantically. The colours fade, but the words hang around in the air like puffs of smoke.
“Please God, she can’t know.”
I’m in the kitchen now. I yank the fridge door open and pull the crisper out, tossing an array of secondary coloured vegetables aside. The paper feels dry and cold as I pull the clue out. I don’t want to read it, but I have to. I swallow the acrid taste that is rising in my mouth and open the envelope.
You slowly began to show yourself
I had to start to protect myself
I saw you at it you dirty mole
Your next clue is in the punchbowl
My ears start to ring, beating in time with my escalating pulse. I look around the room. Empty. I run to the bedroom, skidding on a pair of dirty socks.
“Fuck!”
I pick up my mobile with trembling hands. No messages. I finger my engagement ring. It feels foreign — a big, fat dirty lie. Punchbowl. I need to find the bloody punchbowl.
I shove the phone into my pyjama pants pocket, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the full length mirror. I look like a shoplifter caught stuffing my pockets.
The hallway feels as though it will never end, the deep echo of my footsteps rebounding off the walls. I am an inmate on death row shuffling towards the execution chamber.
On my hands and knees, I search the antique, wooden cabinet for the rounded shape of the punchbowl. A small picture frame is inside it with an envelope taped to the front. It stares back at me — knowing. My eyes start to blur. My tears taste like medicine. Ignoring the voices in my head telling me to run, I pull the envelope off. I’m naked. He’s naked too, and we’re going for it — me on top, his hands around my waist.
“Oh Gab, it didn’t mean anything!”
I taste hot saliva. My stomach lurches. Cold sweat coats my cleavage. The photo frame slips out of my hands and clunks loudly onto the floor. I pick the envelope up. My fingers tighten around the edges, the whites of my knuckles bursting through my red fists. Like a mother being led into a morgue, waiting for the big reveal, I open it.
I took your knowledge of chemistry
To concoct a poison to kill thee
It is all over the photo frame
You have only got yourself to blame
Look up the word Dimethylmercury
And have a memorable anniversary
I stare at the piece of paper. I can feel my heart roaring, my head pounding. The acrid taste in my mouth is replaced with a dryness that makes it hard to breathe. Then the room begins to move, like I’m on a carnival ride. My hand goes out to brace my fall, but my fingers are numb. I collapse onto the cold, hard floor. This can’t be happening. Gab wouldn’t do this to me. Somehow, I manage to drag myself to a standing position, and on shaky legs, I stumble to the lounge room, yank the iPad off the coffee table and Google Dimethylmercury.
Dimethylmercury is one of the strongest known neurotoxins, with a quantity of less than 0.1 mL capable of inducing severe mercury poisoning, and is easily absorbed through the skin. After several months of abdominal pain, slurred speech and severe neurological damage, eventual progression leads to a vegetative state and death.
My eyes bore into the screen. My stomach flip flops like a goldfish dying on land. Then my mouth starts to salivate. Its sickly sweet warmth forces me up off the couch and straight for the bathroom. I can’t make it. I fall onto the bed, my strength zapped like a gym junkie after a 1000-pound squat. I look up. Our wardrobe is open. Gab’s side is bare. I pull my mobile out of my pocket and dial 000.