RECKLESS PT2

Saturday…

Sleep deserts me. I hold back a whimper. My body feels thoroughly misused. Jesus..! I hurt badly. I close my eyes and try to feel every muscle, every bone. It takes my addled brain a moment to pinpoint the source of the pain. Both my head and stomach hurt. The headache is not the issue. I have mastered the art of sleeping through a headache since many of my mornings were plagued by them. My abdomen, on the other hand, is burning. The sensation is not new. Unlike my headaches, my stomach aches are crippling. “God!” I cry out coiling into a ball as I try to figure out the cause of the stomachache. Such pain could only mean two things;

1.     My ulcers were bleeding or

2.     I was simply very hungry.

Shit! I push my beddings away and crawl towards the medicine cabinet as the ache intensifies. I grimace as I open the cabinet. The place is messy with all sorts of medicines some of which were past the expiration date. I hurriedly sort through them, looking for something for my ulcers and painkillers. I unconsciously grab a roughly cello taped bottle, which I quickly toss to the back. I wonder how it got at the front. The bottle is there to be remembered, but not touched since it reminded me of the dark days that I try to forget. I give myself a mental shake to push away the glimpse of the past that flashes in my mind.

Locating what I’m searching for, I place the tablets in my hand before tossing them in my mouth. Getting back on the bed, I take a swig of yesterday’s vodka. My eyes dart to the bedroom door expecting to see you. You always have a bad habit of popping up whenever I did something you deemed wrong. I take another swig and smile. It seems like you are late today. I finish the vodka then drag myself to the nearest kiosk. The shopkeeper pulls out my vodka as I get to the counter. I didn’t know whether to frown or smile at the look on her face when I ask her to add a packet of milk and some bread to the vodka.

“Do you want eggs too?” I hear the surprise in her voice. I could not blame her. To her, I did nothing but kill my liver with alcohol. 

I hesitated a little before I say no. Eggs are tempting but I do not think I have gas or kerosene to light a fire. As I pay my bill, I contemplate whether I should pass by a café and get some eggs. The craving wins out. I get back to the house with enough food to feed four people.  

Piling some of the food on a plate, I look around as I take a seat; you are still nowhere to be seen. I guess I should rejoice you are not here. I snort at the thought. It seems like you are waiting for my sins to pile up before springing on me. You are never there to cheer me on. I push you out of my head as I hungrily devour the food. My empty stomach protests as the food touches it’s lining, and then clamps up after ten spoons.

I push the plate away with disgust. My stomach is telling me to stick to what I am used to in its own way. I make a joint from Skinny dude’s weed and open up the new bottle of vodka then get comfortable on the sofa. I zone out with the only sound in the room coming from the swishing vodka and puffed smoke. My idyllic moment is lost when you walk into the room. Our eyes meet and hold. My eyes dare you to say something. For once, you hold your tongue, but your eyes speak volumes. I look away as memories soon unlock themselves darkening my mood.

I am a victim of circumstance. I was not always like this.  I was once full of joy, full of hope, full of life. Everything in my life seemed to be on the right path. I had great friends, a great house, and a great career. The only thing missing in my life was a man. I needed a man to fill the void that only a man could. I socialized to get one. I dabble in dating. No one seemed to fit, well not until I met him. He seemed perfect. He dazzled me with his charm and gifts. Never had I ever seen such devotion. He was in everyone’s opinion Mr. Right and I was to agree with them. 

Wanting my fairy tale, I agreed to move in with Mr. Right. He appeared agreeable and took over responsibilities that any other spouse would do. I fell deeply in love. Mr. Right soon convinced me to quit my job saying that he earned enough to take care of both of us. He wanted a housewife, a woman who could be home to take care of his future children. He did not want a stranger raising his children. How could I say no to that? Here was a man who was looking at the future. His views called to my traditional heart that believed a man was the sole breadwinner.

Everything was dreamy at first until my perfect Mr. Right, soon turned to Mr. flaw, Mr. Wrong. He wanted a Stepford wife. Everything from my makeup, clothing, cleaning, and cooking was to be faultless. His ego was unfathomable. He always had to be correct. He thought he knew everything.  Jesus..! He even controlled how much pleasure I was entitled to during sex. Mr. Wrong believed there should be punishment for every mistake, no matter how little.

I was speechless the first time he hit me. He later put a slight dent in his bank account buying me gifts to apologize profusely for his mistake. He even cried. The tears touched me. Foolish I know, but I believed him. I mean the handsome man could not be the monster that I had had a glimpse of. It did not take long for me to realize my bad judgment.

The hospital and I become best buddies, my jewelry collection increased. I gradually began to lose my friends. I did not want to explain the bruises, black eyes or broken limbs. I did not want them to see how low I had gone. It was during that period that you came into my life, whispering comforts and encouragement. You were my own personal angel. I relied on you. You become my best friend.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months as I dwelled in anguish. I soon fell pregnant. Not surprising since he had gotten me off the pill. I was unsure how he would take the news. One could never tell with his moods. Something could please him at one moment, only for it to be repugnant in the next. To say that his reaction surprised me is an understatement. He rejoiced to the news. He bought me a dress with matching jewelry and took me out for dinner, something he had not done in a long time.

It’s like the pregnancy news transformed him. He made sure I ate well and took me to the best gynecologist he could find. We were both ecstatic when we learned we were going to have a boy. I thought to name the baby Joshua because he seemed to be my salvation. I was happy for once in a long time. I enjoyed the newly acquired attention. I did not listen to you when you told me to be careful. That was my second strike in bad judgment. 

The beatings started again. He was careful at first, aiming for anywhere but my abdomen. You gave me a reality check. Telling me it had to stop. Telling me how I had Joshua to think of. This time I listened. I thought of my unborn child. I could not think of bringing him to my hell. We formulated a plan, you and I. It was a great plan, but we both failed to consider the stupid pot of overcooked potatoes that changed everything.

The pieces were falling into place yet I grew jumpy as the days approached. My nerves were in overdrive. Luckily, Mr. Wrong didn’t seem to notice any difference in my behavior. I blame my nerves for everything that happened that fateful evening. Mr. Wrong had come home early while I was counting the impressive money I had accumulated from selling some of the jewelry. Hearing his voice, I quickly hid the money and rushed to welcome him home. I kept wondering if I had hidden the money properly as I cooked supper. The potatoes got slightly overcooked as my mind wandered. I decided to serve the potatoes anyway since I knew he would punish me for giving him late dinner.

What happened next will always be blurry in my mind. I remember him complaining about the potatoes and me saying they were fine. I remember the first blow that knocked me off my seat. He was all over me, he would not stop. I cried and begged him to mind our child. He would not listen. He would not stop. He repeatedly kicked my abdomen. I would never forget the sharp pain, the blood dripping down my thighs as I lost Joshua. A raw primeval sound emerged from me as I screeched for my child, calling for him over and over before I passed out.

Losing my little savior was the last straw to my sanity. I remember waking me up in a hospital bed minus my child. I remember Mr. Wrong blaming me for the loss as soon as we got home. I felt hollow. I felt like I was inside a nightmare. Joshua was all I thought of. I accidentally on purpose swallowed a great number of pills one morning. It’s unfortunate that Mr. Wrong thought to save me. He could not do without his own personal punching bag.

I introduced myself to alcohol and any drug to fill the void.  It was then that your encouraging words changed to criticism, your smile turned into a constant frown. Yes, I had changed. I was not the same. I could no longer taste, I could not feel. I no longer felt Mr. Wrong’s blows. Something else was born from deep inside me. An eye for an eye, death for death. I plotted his downfall. It took me awhile to decide just how I wanted it. Drugging him seemed reasonable.  The more I wanted to get high, the more I learned about drugs. I easily obtained what is now cello taped in my cabinet. You were there when I started drugging him. You tried to stop me. I guess you did not try enough.

The process took weeks. I watched and waited patiently for the signs begun. It started with the excruciating stomach aches, the volatile vomiting followed, and then confusion set in – he thought he was going insane. I was present as he looked for medical treatment. I tried not to smile when he was given the wrong medication. I knew his days were numbered when his skin discolored. Ironically, his final moment came during dinner. I had watched as his lungs failed him, smiled sweetly as he had grasped for breath. He had suffered the way I believed my Joshua had. My smile widened at the astonished look on his face. It dawned on him in those last moments that I had taken his life. Revenge was indeed sweet.

No one suspected his death. His funeral was not attended by many. Only family was present, his side of the family. I did not make it to the funeral. Many believed I was distraught when I was actually drinking myself into a stupor. Then Darkness set in. Time was no longer important. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes turned into hours, hours into days, days into months, and months into years. I could not tell how much time had passed. All I knew was Mr. Wrong’s death was in vain since my Joshua was still gone.

A sound of a child’s laughter diffuses the memories, bringing me back to the present. I stagger to the window in search of the sound. Tears come into full force as I watch the child playing. That child could have been Joshua. The hole in my heart expands. I miss my unborn baby. I want my little savior badly. I feel your hand reaching out to comfort me.

“Leave me alone” I shrug off your hand in rage. I do not want comfort. I want to feel. I want to love and be loved. I want to have felt my child in my arms.

You safely step back at the look in my eyes. You have seen me like this before. You know what happens next. A rampage. I release a scream, grabbing and throwing everything in my path. You stand safely away from flying objects. My episode is done in a few minutes. Breathing hard, I look around me to see the damage. I have done a number on the room yet I do not feel sedated. For the umpteenth time, I wondered why I am still alive when all I want is to join my baby.

I need to drown my sorrows. I need a drink; I look around to find my vodka bottle lying on the ground broken. “Shit! What a waste?” I murmur as I stare at the bottle and the spilled liquor. There is glass all over the floor. An idea sparks in my mind. I look at the broken glass with new eyes. No, it was not a complete waste. I vaguely hear you call my name sharply as I lean to pick a piece of broken glass. Grasping the glass in my right hand, I turn to face you. Your eyes are rounded in disbelief. It seems like you have read my mind. I smile. My eyes dare you to stop me as I slash my left wrist.

Sunday…