Irene Wilde
New Member
I promised this one to Mr. Enema, but then I thought, "why not share it with class?"
All responses appreciated.
Irene Wilde
After a hard but rewarding day at work, I am met at home by a pair of bloodshot eyes and a scowl. He’s been drinking. He always drinks. I go to the kitchen; the counter is littered with silver aluminum cans. “Silver Bullets, indeed,” I think, wondering what genius of Madison Avenue came up with that slogan. I count 18 of them, all empty. He’s been a busy boy, and he doesn’t look done yet.
It had been a good day at work, busy and companionable. I had been feeling normal until I came home. Everyone had said our marriage would be good for him, that he would drink less and “settle down.” Six months after the wedding, it seemed to me he drank more. The trip from the curb to the door each night was taking me through the looking glass. I can’t face tonight. I can’t face his monologue of abuse, addressed to the walls, but meant for me. It’s only 5:30 in the evening, it will be another 10 hours before he staggers towards the bed and passes out. Ten hours. No sleep. The Hank Williams album will go on about midnight, played too loud, yet not loud enough to drown his venomous words. “Well, **** me,” he’ll say at least once every 10 minutes, six times an hour. Sixty more “Well, **** me’s” before the nightmare will end. The arithmetic of booze. I hear the top pop on another one. He sits on the sofa glaring at me through the kitchen doorway. What will it be tonight? “You insatiable bitch in heat” or “My art is so great no one comprehends it”? Not tonight, I decide, and reach into the cabinet for the brandy. He is a drunk, and I am now Mrs. Drunk. Time to join the club.
Six months ago our wedding had been beautiful. A glorious summer morning, blue skies, green grass, an ocean of flowers. My voice had been little more than a croaky whisper as I had said my vows, the oft-repeated words held such meaning for me I felt almost unworthy. I was saying them under God’s own sky to the man I loved, the man who loved me. Everyone said how I glowed that day, but I didn’t need them to: I felt my own glow. It’s still there in the photographs. My wish came true. My prayers answered.
And now I was living happily ever after.
The brandy burns my throat going down. First one shot, then another. This surprises him. His eyes lose even more focus. I can see his thoughts: “What’s that crazy bitch doing?” To show him, I down a third, neat and quick, like the tough guys down whiskey in the movies. He recovers after his initial confusion. He can’t let my actions supercede his own. He must have his spotlight. The night turns ugly quickly. We glare at each other silently across the coffee table, each daring the other to speak the first word, and I am more than matching him drink for drink. Then the monologue begins. He’s so drunk he can’t keep his eyes open. He sits alone on the sofa, eyes shut, swaying slightly with each volley.
“I don’t love you…had to marry someone so I married you. Doesn’t mean shit.”
And then, “Fucking bitch only wants sex….well, **** me.”
Still glaring at him in silence, I savor my victory, but it is bitter. It’s to be “Insatiable bitch” tonight. I’ve heard it before. I’m going to bed. Trying my best for dignified indifference, I stagger to the bedroom. Once there, in the safety of the darkness, with the door closed to muffle that ranting my absence has done nothing to silence, the feelings come out. The armor of bitterness and betrayal fall away and I slump to the floor, curling up in a tight ball of helplessness. I feel the sting of his words. I feel a miserable sense of failure and shame. I cannot go on like this. Six months have made a mockery of those vows. Six months of pretending marital bliss to the world, then returning home to the nightmare has exhausted me. Six months so long and so short; too brief to be called a marriage, an eternity for a living hell. Something warm comes up my throat, fills my mouth, then slips out. I cannot go on like this. The room is spinning in darkness and I am slipping down into the vortex, my own pulse and his vicious words pounding in my ears, then blackness and silence. On this night, I finally manage to blot him out.
I regain consciousness, still sprawled on the floor. Vomit sticks to my chin and neck. My clothes are soaked with urine, and to make matters worse, I’ve gotten my period during the night. I glance at the clock: 6:15 a.m. I have to be at work in an hour.
“Happily ever after,” I think, then I go get a towel and start cleaning up the mess out of the carpet.
All responses appreciated.
Irene Wilde
After a hard but rewarding day at work, I am met at home by a pair of bloodshot eyes and a scowl. He’s been drinking. He always drinks. I go to the kitchen; the counter is littered with silver aluminum cans. “Silver Bullets, indeed,” I think, wondering what genius of Madison Avenue came up with that slogan. I count 18 of them, all empty. He’s been a busy boy, and he doesn’t look done yet.
It had been a good day at work, busy and companionable. I had been feeling normal until I came home. Everyone had said our marriage would be good for him, that he would drink less and “settle down.” Six months after the wedding, it seemed to me he drank more. The trip from the curb to the door each night was taking me through the looking glass. I can’t face tonight. I can’t face his monologue of abuse, addressed to the walls, but meant for me. It’s only 5:30 in the evening, it will be another 10 hours before he staggers towards the bed and passes out. Ten hours. No sleep. The Hank Williams album will go on about midnight, played too loud, yet not loud enough to drown his venomous words. “Well, **** me,” he’ll say at least once every 10 minutes, six times an hour. Sixty more “Well, **** me’s” before the nightmare will end. The arithmetic of booze. I hear the top pop on another one. He sits on the sofa glaring at me through the kitchen doorway. What will it be tonight? “You insatiable bitch in heat” or “My art is so great no one comprehends it”? Not tonight, I decide, and reach into the cabinet for the brandy. He is a drunk, and I am now Mrs. Drunk. Time to join the club.
Six months ago our wedding had been beautiful. A glorious summer morning, blue skies, green grass, an ocean of flowers. My voice had been little more than a croaky whisper as I had said my vows, the oft-repeated words held such meaning for me I felt almost unworthy. I was saying them under God’s own sky to the man I loved, the man who loved me. Everyone said how I glowed that day, but I didn’t need them to: I felt my own glow. It’s still there in the photographs. My wish came true. My prayers answered.
And now I was living happily ever after.
The brandy burns my throat going down. First one shot, then another. This surprises him. His eyes lose even more focus. I can see his thoughts: “What’s that crazy bitch doing?” To show him, I down a third, neat and quick, like the tough guys down whiskey in the movies. He recovers after his initial confusion. He can’t let my actions supercede his own. He must have his spotlight. The night turns ugly quickly. We glare at each other silently across the coffee table, each daring the other to speak the first word, and I am more than matching him drink for drink. Then the monologue begins. He’s so drunk he can’t keep his eyes open. He sits alone on the sofa, eyes shut, swaying slightly with each volley.
“I don’t love you…had to marry someone so I married you. Doesn’t mean shit.”
And then, “Fucking bitch only wants sex….well, **** me.”
Still glaring at him in silence, I savor my victory, but it is bitter. It’s to be “Insatiable bitch” tonight. I’ve heard it before. I’m going to bed. Trying my best for dignified indifference, I stagger to the bedroom. Once there, in the safety of the darkness, with the door closed to muffle that ranting my absence has done nothing to silence, the feelings come out. The armor of bitterness and betrayal fall away and I slump to the floor, curling up in a tight ball of helplessness. I feel the sting of his words. I feel a miserable sense of failure and shame. I cannot go on like this. Six months have made a mockery of those vows. Six months of pretending marital bliss to the world, then returning home to the nightmare has exhausted me. Six months so long and so short; too brief to be called a marriage, an eternity for a living hell. Something warm comes up my throat, fills my mouth, then slips out. I cannot go on like this. The room is spinning in darkness and I am slipping down into the vortex, my own pulse and his vicious words pounding in my ears, then blackness and silence. On this night, I finally manage to blot him out.
I regain consciousness, still sprawled on the floor. Vomit sticks to my chin and neck. My clothes are soaked with urine, and to make matters worse, I’ve gotten my period during the night. I glance at the clock: 6:15 a.m. I have to be at work in an hour.
“Happily ever after,” I think, then I go get a towel and start cleaning up the mess out of the carpet.