Written for hc_bingo on livejournal (check it out!). Disclaimer is on profile.
Frankly, you're not exactly sure as to what you did to warrant this shit. You knew, somewhere in the middle of your marriage, that Jennifer was hiding something from you. You never really knew what, just that it was bad. Or at least bad for you. You're still debating on if it was bad for Jennifer too.
It's selfish, you know that. It's so bloody selfish to be rambling on about how much you don't deserve this when your wife died. Killed herself, much to your surprise. Jennifer was many things, but suicidal was not one of them. She was always so prim, so proper; not one speck of dust would dare land on her suit, and not once did she forget to wash her hands. Never would she put herself in danger, and never would she do anything to harm herself.
No, the moment you heard it was a suicide you knew something was wrong.
Then you learn that it really wasn't a suicide, that she was murdered by a crazy cab driver and some bloke named Sherlock Holmes figured it out. For a moment there you thought that maybe you should send him a thank you note, because her family wasn't going to give her a bloody proper burial, they frowned upon suicide that much. Then you realise that you're thanking them for discovering that your wife was murdered.
And Jennifer… Jennifer was something, that's for sure. She was gone now, but before she was. Well. A workaholic, impeccably dressed all the time, dignified and smooth to the core. She was a news anchor, could never stay in just one place. The first time you met her, it was in college and she was making a mock newscast, and she was so beautiful, it took you weeks to summon the courage to say one word to her. And that one work was 'um'.
She had the most gorgeous laugh, and she was so smart. Graduated top of her class in everything, and you couldn't believe that you had a woman so perfect. Couldn't believe that nerdy old you could have gotten Jennifer Wilson, sorority sister, top of her class, smart and beautiful and funny and sweet and just so perfect. The fact that she just had to coordinate everything, or that she was positively anal about cleanliness, to you, made her all that more perfect.
She was sophisticated, hated being called Jenny. Jen? Fine, she doesn't mind. Jenny, though? No way. You called her that once and she said it was demeaning, for some reason. You never understood why, although she kept insisting it was a child's name so that must have been something.
Then came Rachel. God, you were devastated when Rachel came. Stillborn. No parent should have to hold their dead child in their arms. No human being deserves to hold their infant, their cold, still, lifeless infant in their arms, to know that they'll never cry or say or name or call you dada. Never wake you up at three o'clock in the morning screaming their heads off, or roll their eyes at you, or graduate high school or get a job, friends, and a boyfriend. What's worse were the thoughts rolling around in your head, thoughts like how the previous nine months were such a waste, how you spent all that time and money on baby clothes and a crib and the nursery in general, how you're never going to get it back. You never voiced your thoughts, and Jennifer was never the same.
But everything changed after Rachel. Jen was colder, more distant. Your sex life dissolved to nothing. The atmosphere at the house turned cold. And you're sure that Jennifer was having an affair.
But Jennifer's dead now. She's dead, and you want her memory to be pure, untainted. So it shall.
