Chapter 7 – freedom urn

“There saw I how the secret felon wrought,
And treason labouring in the traitor's thought,
And midwife Time the ripened plot to murder brought.” - Geoffrey Chaucer, 'The Canterbury Tales'

As I drove home that night, I lingered in deep thought, a kind of deep thought that brings you to another place. An unknown realm of sorts that makes you feel briefly disconnected. The quiet hum of the radio distracted me; yet a subtle hush of white noise seeped from my window seducing sleep. I struggled to fend off tired eyes as I slouched in my bucket seat entranced by what seemed like a ballet of pterodactyl sized bugs fluttering along the golden beams of light. Dreadfully weary when I finally arrived home, yet relieved, despite my requisite bunk mate...well, just for one last night.

Once I pulled my car in the driveway, I pulled the key from the ignition and sat staring at my house wondering what horror awaited me behind the front door. I shifted my eyes to the rear view mirror, to briefly distract myself with the two sleepy angels in my back seat. For a few brief moments, I sat and relished in the sentiment of solace that came with the kind of memories I planned to build with them.

In fact, as the days drew closer to Alex's murder, I found that I would daydream often about our new days ahead. Days that would surely be filled with the likes of peace and ice cream. Several celebratory rounds of copious ice cream, served up with giant spoons, in our living room, on our pristine cream carpet. Creamy drops of ice cream would fall from their spoons without consequence. Only to be complemented by the joyful sounds of giggling lips covered in chocolate sprinkles; no more slaps or screams.

 

As I ascended the stairs leading my sleepy boys to bed, I noticed Alex sitting in the chair situated in the center of our living room with his feet propped on the furry looking ottoman. He did not speak a word to me when I walked through the door. I only caught him in my peripheral vision as he hastily sipped his beer, as though it distracted him from other thoughts. He lifted the bottle to his lips sucking back the brew; then followed up with an obnoxious squeal as his lips released the mouth of the bottle.

Having known Alex, these actions were deliberate, with his attempt at an affected cool refrain. Outwardly he wanted to create the illusion that he didn't care, as though he was unaffected and unmoved by my presence. As though his cruel tactics of harassment and torture had not consumed him daily. Tactics that somehow made him feel better about himself; in lieu of how truly pitiful his life had become.

That night I sat on the edge of Anthony's bed and brushed back wisps of chestnut hair from his face as my fingertips lightly grazed his soft alabaster cheeks flushed with warmth. This was my secret ploy to steal a few moments away. A ploy that would not go unnoticed for long. That night I was nearly certain Alex had cultivated a “charming” mood prior to my arrival. A fine cultivation at that, one that was surely nurtured with the likes of ample beer consumption and not to mention his inclination for being a complete and total asshole.

Without my being too obvious, and that being my lack of haste checking with Alex as he stewed over God knows what, I made my way to the living room. Like a toddler Alex sat silently crying for attention, as he though his outward manifestations were unclear and somehow lost in translation. People with the most dulled sensibilities could easily make out the teetering chip on his shoulder; a resounding bold chip that had made its permanent residency some time ago and flatly refused resignation.

During his short stay with us, he would continuously attend to an inflated sense of entitlement that could devour innocent passerby's with its consuming fog. God forbid there were forgotten dishes, forgotten laundry, or worst a forgotten phone call. Luckily, I was no longer concerned with fixing things. Now I tolerated his boyish antics...for the time being. Unfortunately for him, that limited time offer had expired.

After stealing away a few moments, I softly tiptoed across Anthony's floor maneuvering with calculated footsteps to avoid a nerve wracking floor creek, a sudden mishap with a wayward toy or an unfortunate slice from the five inch knife stuck in my shoe. Certainly, by now its blade had shredded the sole of my sneaker. Standing in Anthony's doorway I slowly pulled the door toward me leaving just a crack of light for his night time navigation.

Before I made my way to the living room, an unexpected rush of excitement came over me when suddenly the knife's cool blade pierced the side of my foot. It was a subtle yet unmistakable sting of pain. Now with deliberate, careful movements it became more evident just how real the situation had become.  That night, I stood inches from the man I intended to tear open with the very knife that now pierced the tender underside of my foot.

Its razor-sharp edge served as a reminder that this was, in fact, the end; the end of my journey, the end of a monster. This moment unnaturally aroused me, in that I delighted in its stinging pain and the blood stains it left in its wake. It was an unusual rush of excitement that one cannot say is felt all too often, the kind of ethereal excitement you remember as a child on Christmas morning. Only a darker more macabre type fan fare.

Much to my surprise, that night Alex hadn't stored up his usual artillery of complaints. His intention was to simply relay his usual indifference and to keep the status quo of resounding hatred looming in the foreground. Within the murky culverts of his simple mind lived a devouring animosity, his choice tool used to manipulate and an attempt to conjure fear. This was not love, it could never be love, his belief in love was a twisted sad testament to love.

When I walked into the room where he sat, I stood leaning against the couch for a moment simply awaiting a response.

After being ignored for a few moments, I said, “Well, it was a long day, I'm going to hit the sack. You staying up for a while?”

Without averting his eyes from the TV he replied, “Yeah, I'll be in bed in a bit, just going to watch the rest of the news.”

Shockingly, that night my sleep was not disturbed by restlessness and the next day I was able to remain focused on the tasks at hand. Since I had rarely enjoyed a leisurely weekend, it was important that I not enjoy a restful Saturday.

The misogynistic, old fashioned semantics of life had not alluded Alex. He felt the woman should clean the house and the man should enjoy the fruits of her labor. Unfortunately, any concept of hard work always managed to allude him. That morning Alex woke up around 10 a.m. and announced he was 'making a trip to the market for a few things'.

When I asked him to bring the kids he scoffed and put up a fuss, and I for that I knew his ulterior motive was to stop at the bar for a quick pop -bloody mary-. I preferred he hadn't since the tab was ultimately paid with my funds. More importantly, that particular day he shouldn't be allowed a drop of booze. His sobriety was important, important to me, as sobriety would ensure he remembered every second of terror I planned to inflict. I wanted badly for him to suffer as I watched his last thread of life unravel.

Once Alex left with the boys, I staged the necessary props for our evening out. I went to our closet and carefully reviewed my collection of slinky dresses, and then hung one seductive red mini dress on the top of the bedroom door. My red kitten heels stood at the ready, near the base of our bed. From my modest jewelry collection, I placed some sparse baubles on my night stand.

That evening's relentless bitter irony was that I planned to wear nothing, it would make for easier clean up that way. This was simply a masquerade intended to deceive. A staged costume party without a guest to speak of and ultimately a gravely poor outcome.

Aside from my staging  props, that Saturday morning would turn out rather unremarkable; like most spent while living with Alex. I tidied up the house and took occasional breaks to tend to the children. After having lunch with my mother and having left the children in her care, I called La Dolce Vita, a charming Italian eatery, and made dinner reservations.

The most merciful sort of axe men would allow their accused one last meal, however that day I hadn't felt an ounce of mercy. Alex would be rendered lifeless before one spoonful could touch his lips. In fact, in just a few short hours, he would lay gasping and clinging to life on the cool surface of our tiled bathroom floor.

I thought the bathroom was the easiest and most convenient spot to hide the knife and to wash up immediately after. The night before, I hid the murder weapon in my night stand drawer, where I also stored my reprehensible collection of vibrating dongs and dildos. Some would assume this to be the first place he may nose around. Although, I knew full well that Alex would never look where I kept my treats of risqué pleasures. The utter mention of a vibrating rabbit or the like would expeditiously depreciate his sense of manhood to the ranks of prepubescent boyhood.

Admittedly, the past few years I had continued to accumulate a small collection simply to incense him; that is until I discovered one sadly abused plastic toy cut square in half with a pair of garden sheers. Certainly his boyish intention was to upset me, however, the result was uproarious hysterical laughter until my stomach ached and my head began to pound from lack of air. My only regret was the waste of such a precious resource.

After retrieving the knife from my delinquent drawer, I placed it in between the pages of an old Newsweek that rested atop my toilet's tank. I could count on him not turning the pages of an informative magazine. Alex garnered his political awareness from talk radio and the internet. He would then pontificate on his vast array of knowledge with banal blog posts. His writing was utterly void of originality and were merely regurgitated editorial columns he claimed to be his own.

That afternoon Alex sat in his office undoubtedly catching up on riveting commentary posted to his blog. Coincidentally, I refused to become a “follower” of his work. Otherwise, I would have endured a painful hailstorm of emails when he would author one of his varied "magnum opuses". His idea of civilized discourse would begin as expected and always somehow end with expletives sprinkled on top; especially if a woman chose to engage him. He was truly a moron adorning a mask of intelligence, but the only person invited to this allusive costume party was him.

I sat in the living room listening to the clack of typing, his fingers flying over the keyboard, in all likelihood conjuring up a scathing reply to some unsuspecting follower. In the living room, I sat staring at the pages of a random book cradled in my trembling hands, occasionally turning a page. Admittedly, all my faculties were consumed with his every move. Merely minutes before my planned attack I struggled to find the courage to follow through with my plan.

Alex brought home a six pack from the market and had begun drinking around 3 p.m. I was somewhat disappointed, in that I wanted him to experience a certain degree of terror just as he had inflicted upon me over the past few years. I wanted so badly for him to feel the worst pain he had ever felt without the benefit of dulled senses. I tried to focus on the positive and that was his early afternoon buzz would inhibit his response time and leave him clueless as to what was coming.

During his last few unremarkable moments, I could have walked into his office and beat the rotten piss out of his face with a baseball bat; he would have never seen it coming. I had contemplated doing just that, that would have been far more gratifying. I delighted in a parade of images that pranced through my mind, exposing his skull bone and brain matter with the relentless swings of a smart Louisville Slugger. Although, the likelihood of him recovering from a pierced spine was far less. Therefore, I smartly decided to go with the knife -a sure bet- or so I thought.

At approximately 6:15 p.m. Alex walked into the kitchen to grab a chilled beer from the freezer. The hiss of carbonation pierced the silence of the room followed by a sharp ping of the bottle cap hitting the tiled floor as it missed the garbage. I sat and listened to him chug a few sips and then bellow a loud resounding belch.

With a cavalier unscathed air about him he waltzed into the room where I sat, wearing nothing but undersized boxer shorts and his black unshaven chest exposed bearing an odd likeliness to a thickly woven hideous bathroom rug.

As an abridged burp continued to reverberate from his lips he said, “I'm gonna hop in the shower soon so we can head out for dinner.”

With that short quip he then made his way back to the office to finish whatever garbage he was spouting off online. It was then I took those few moments to position myself for the final act. It was unfortunate for him, during those final moments that he hadn't posted a farewell blog. Surely his death would pique the interest of several since half the mail he received was hate mail. A tragic kind of suicide to fuel the respective twitting twits of the world, at least for a week or two. Although, severing your own spine would be a difficult feat to accomplish. Alas, his spiteful blog minions had unknowingly read his final blog entry and would receive their last scathing reply.

As he sat in his office typing and belching up remnants of lunch, quietly I tiptoed to the bathroom. I hid myself behind a wall where the toilet was situated. The toilet is partitioned from the remainder of the bathroom and it was there I crouched waiting... I had already removed my clothes and placed them in the linen closet.

My bare buttocks were quickly numbed by the floor's frigid surface. My nerves tingled and a subtle tremor traveled across the surface of my then goose pimpled skin as shivers ran through my body igniting every nerve. I pushed my back squarely against the bathroom wall, slightly propping myself midair, brushed against the beaded moisture of the toilet's tank then dripping onto my naked skin.

I pushed back as far as possible into the corner, then rest my head inside my cupped hands; intently listening and waiting on his next move. I only prayed he wouldn't need to use the toilet before he showered. Nervously I sat trembling with nothing to focus on but for the blank wall before me. After a few moments I lifted the knife from its resting spot and placed it on my knee and studied the orange glistening serrations that reflected settling beams of the sunset peaking through the window above.

Suddenly the bathroom's linen closet door opened, and it was then a jarring spasm strummed my spine much like a prickly handed harpist would harmonize with a grisly orchestra of sorts. The distinct pains shot through me and froze me cold and listless as I listened to his clothes swish into the hamper. 'Cling, clang, cling, cling!' as he removed his wedding ring it had fallen to the floor. My nerves so piqued at the time, it sounded as though a resounding boom had echoed against my bathroom walls. 

 

Chapter 6 - It only hurts when I breath.

Chapter 6....it only hurts when I breath.

“What can be more soothing, at once to a man's Pride, and to his Conscience, than the conviction that, in taking vengeance on his enemies for injustice done him, he has simply to do them justice in return?” - Edgar Allen Poe

The next morning during my ride to work, I sat stoic as the train thrust its way through Boston's subterranean cavernous maze. Just feet above, along the streets of Boston, a bounty of asphalt and rugged cobblestones endured a brigade of footfalls as pedestrians braved the likes of kamikaze cab drivers and dared to step from their respective curbs.

That day I was oblivious to the coarse friction of disharmonious chatter which ordinarily clanged chaotically against the train's dense steel walls. Most days, a muffled mass of discord would pervade and awake my every sense, but that day it was merely a hushed whisper in the foreground.

If you were to ask me how I appeared to most that day, I'm not entirely certain. I would imagine transparent with the vapidness of a child's puppet with a dangling cascade of strings. Clearly my mind had traveled into the unknown. Outwardly, surely it appeared I was absent. Somehow I had managed my own of astral travel of sorts; at least that's how I felt.

As my frame jostled in time with the heaving underground terrain, I sat entranced by the deceitful plans that consumed me. An overwhelming tingle of numbness embraced me; seemingly a legion of pinpricks could have grazed my skin with the slightest of ease. 

 

I would have quickly volunteered the excuse that I was simply overtired. The truth would surely disturb most, and that was the elaborate web of alibis and deceit which entangled my every waking thought. The tactics I would execute consumed my mind, that is...my careful plan of murder. Planning the days that would lead up to my husband's final gasps for air. These fateful days he had unwittingly mapped out for himself.

After having seen several women suffer from the distasteful service of lukewarm justice, I could not bear to unleash the cancerous lesion that is Alex unto amass of unwitting singles. The only chance for a scintilla of hope, was to stomp out what scarce light remained in his dimly lit spirit.

Sitting across from me on the train that morning was an elderly couple. The woman, a slight framed feeble looking woman, who wore a threadbare knee length plaid woolen skirt. Her hair a deep gray, loosely held back from her face with intricate looking turquoise barrettes. Cheap plastic jewelry was draped over her aged parched skin.

She peered at the cement walls that were covered with thick patches of black mold occasionally interrupted by flashing signs and numbered lights that swished past her view; her eyes briefly shifted back to meet her husbands. After a few moments she shifted her gaze back to the dim scenery, and sat completely unaware that her husband sat gazing at her face.

With his cracked aged forefinger, he slowly circled a thin gold band she wore, circling it slowly around her nearly transparent skin. So slowly, as though he were afraid she would break with the slightest of touch. His movements were deliberate as though he held the most precious of flowers cradled in his hands. Worried that the slightest movement could cause its petals to fall and its beauty to forever dissipate from the world.

His feeble long aged fingers grazed the top of her hand that he held in his own, as he looked down at their clasped hands he simply smiled to himself. He looked up and studied his surroundings with a deep sigh of contentment exuding from his lips. As though you could hear the joy rushing slowly from his lips. The old man finally glanced over at me, feeling my eyes on him, and once our eyes had finally met he slowly nodded his head and smiled so wide one could swear his face may split in two. His face beamed with joy and it showed in the corners of his smile and the brightness of his eyes.

That day, amidst the ugliness of a dirty train, directly across from me sat the epitome of enduring love. Witnessing their exchange was something akin to watching caramel drip through the curves of a twisted decanter. A rare yet unique event indeed. I believe God had purposely placed me there, right at that moment, right in that precise seat, so I could to see what was to come, or what could be. For that moment, I would always be truly grateful.

It was then I knew that I could have peace....someday. Perhaps a lifelong love? But for now, I coddled the hope of a new day; hope, such an elusive concept for some. Luckily, I had not lost sight of my hope, it felt only a few short breaths away.

That morning's train ride rekindled my fading spirits, until the stinging bite of reality interrupted once I arrived at work. That is, once I listened to a voice mail from late Friday afternoon.

A sweet twangy voice jangled through my earpiece, it was Victoria our station's victim witness advocate, she resonated an unexpected chipper tone when she had what most would consider the most detestable job at the station, “Hey Officer Chiatti, It's Victoria Smalls, just thought I'd report back to you about my recent chats with Gina Steenley and how that's been coming along. Basically, I haven't been able to reach her for the past three weeks and Ron's hearing is coming up next week. I have a feeling she is going to clam up on this one. Perhaps the prosecutor should try and reach her on this one before the trial? Call me later when you get a chance. K? Bye-bye!”

Holy Shit, Tori, skip a cup of coffee or two. Damn girl. Then again, I guess it was a nice way to get my daily dose of bad news. That morning I called the prosecutor, Michael Armstrong, to fill him in on Steenley case. What was happening or I should say what wasn't happening with the case. As expected his voice mail kicked in...such is the life of an overworked prosecutor. The most overburdened, underpaid public servant known to mankind.

With a morose tone I left Mike the unfortunate details, and that he should expect the spousal immunity card to be thrown his way any day now. That is, spouses cannot be forced to testify against one another. Every day until the hearing I would follow up on the Steenley case. My messages became more and more insistent, as the date inched closer. I never did receive a return call from Michael, but I would have my chance to speak with him at the hearing.

As the days passed, my anger grew. I felt oddly invested and spiteful for yet another victim falling prey to the clutches of yet another deceitful predator...and on my watch. That's all these people were to me, predators who simply did not deserve the deals they were dealt.

The morning of the hearing, my palms moist with what seemed like an endless cascade of sweat, I walked beneath the court's ornate vestibule embellished with phony gold plated ornaments clinging to images of justice with the likes of gavels and balanced scales. The metal detector's nerve-wracking pings reverberated through its lofty corridors assassinating the nerves of each passerby. Court room assignments were posted on a tattered cork-board, uniquely out of place for a building with such delusory grandeur. The respective schedules were pinned amongst a graveyard of stapled remnants with shards of hastily ripped paper;

'Commonwealth v. Steenley: Courtoom 4: 8:00 AM : Justice M. Scalia.'

As you walked through the thick wooden doors of any one courtroom, you would leave the behind the world of cool marble sheen and enter one spacious blank unremarkable space. Where hopeless panic stricken faces lined a tier of benches. Loved ones clung to the knee or hand of their “wrongfully accused” as the briefcase toting lawyers sat crouched behind the bar to exchange insignificant details; callously indifferent to the dreary mood that filled the room like a deep fog.

With a temporary restraining order still in place, Gina and Ron obediently put on a show for onlookers, as they sat as far apart as possible in such a close space. The truth is, they had resumed living together weeks ago. I glanced over at Gina, dressed in her Sunday best, and as my eyes met hers she shamefully averted eye contact and looked down into herself. She exuded a desire to dissipate, much like a wisp of steam.

Despite Gina's obvious discomfort, I continued to glare in her direction as I made my way across the courtroom toward the prosecutor's desk. I knew what she had done, and I knew she was letting him back in, before I even had the chance to find out for myself. A few short steps before I approached their desk, the coarse smell of freshly print paper and cheap cologne assaulted my face; as a team of prosecutors swarmed like a chaotically papered flash mob. A line of lawyers and police officers patiently awaited the attention of one of these newly swarming bees.

When I came to the front of the line, Mr. Armstrong looked up at me while alternating eye contact between his file and my face, and dismissively said, “Oh, Hi there Officer Chiatti. How are you? You know, I meant to call you. Yeah, real sorry about that. I was kinda working on a deal for the Steenley case. So you know? I wasn't quite sure what to tell you. But we just finalized the deal this morning with Ron. We won't be needing your testimony today. You have a great day though.”

And that was that. There was nothing I could do. The deal was done. Instantly, a hot rush of anger welled up inside of me as it bubbled up from the deepest pit of my gut and ascended toward the ranks of my forehead and temples. My complexion assuredly beamed a scarlet red as I became enraptured with an overwhelming sense of unmitigated rage.

As I turned and began to make my way down an ugly depleted grey rug, I shot my glance toward Ron Steenley, who sat in the far rear left hand corner of the courtroom proudly displaying his cocky grin. He stared directly at me as he brought his right hand to his forehead and gestured a half assed salute while subtly nodding his head. He was letting me know he had in fact, won this round.

Without Gina's testimony to back up her former statement, there was little to no chance that a jury would convict a man without any corroboration from the accuser. Ron cut a deal and was on probation for a year with a ninety day suspended sentence and was ordered to attend anger management classes at his cost. Unfortunately, as we later discovered, a cost borne by Gina as well. His criminal charge didn't just disappear, this certainly wasn't an acquittal and for that Gina had to pay the price. This whole ordeal would always be her fault and that could never change. Ever.

Within two weeks of the hearing, Victoria would follow up at the Steenley home, since we were certain they resumed living together; and the restraining order was in fact dismissed. But when Tori arrived at the Steenley home, Gina only partially opened the door and sheepishly peeked around its frame. Despite Tori's persistent efforts she was not allowed in the home but as a silent cry for help, Gina slowly revealed her entire face. Her face so engorged with blood it appeared as though she had strapped a blood sausage along the left side of her face, with a fluttering eye just beneath its casing.

Gina's employer later reported, she had been calling out of work that entire week, and now we knew why. Victoria claimed that as she stood in the hallway quietly talking to Gina, when Ron discovered who was at his door, he quickly became hostile and rushed to slam the door in her face. After she had seen her in this condition, Tori later called Gina and urged her to file a complaint with the PD, and she flatly refused.

Unfortunately, for Ron he would be attending a funeral only two short months from that very date. Once I had my chance to kill him. For now, he would play his cynical game of torture. For now... for this very short time.

Over the next few weeks I focused on my tasks at hand rather than allowing anger and rage to consume my every waking moment. Before I completely lost my mind, I knew my first order of business was Alex. I knew I could not truly help anyone else until I helped myself. I was in desperate need of peaceful solitude, and if it could not be my home then where could it be?

The day after Gina's hearing I started making calls to plan my last night with my husband. My children would need a place to stay that night; a place with more humble on goings than the likes of police lights and congealing pools of thick blood.

I could always count on my mother, and after a few short rings to her phone that morning, she answered with her usual chipper tone, “Hello! Hey, I was going to call you last night. I'm glad you called. I was going to ask if your father and I could come by for a visit this weekend.”

I replied, “Of course, actually mom I have a favor to ask.”

“Sure, what's up?” she replied.

I said,“Alex got a new job.”

She replied, “Really, well that's good.”

I continued, “Yeah, it is good, mom. So I was thinking about taking him out to celebrate this weekend. Could you watch the kids at your place Saturday night? That would be a great.”

We quickly discussed plans to bring the children to the park for the day, catch some lunch and then of course she would quickly ran through a list of special activities she planned for later that evening. This would include smores making fan fare, living room forts, and who could pass up a rousing mess making spell of finger paint? Most assuredly more wholesome activities than what I had planned.

After I hung up with my mother, I scrolled up to “Ann” and pressed send. Ann was a good friend of mine who lived up in New Hampshire with her boyfriend, Dan. I had been meaning to pay her a visit and since I was overdue, I was praying she didn't have plans for Friday night. The reason for my spontaneous visit was two-fold. First I had to visit my friend to uncover some refreshed inspiration. There was perhaps no one on the planet who loathed Alex more than I had. While I could not divulge my plan, she would surely provide me with a fresh dose of gumption. 

 

My second reason, aside from the fresh New England air and a free home cooked meal, I knew there was a rather impressive collection of hunting gear in a special room just beneath her kitchen. A hunting room where her boyfriend, Dan, assigned well appointed pegs for his collection of avid huntsmen gear. An array of muskets, crossbows and buck knives littered that wall. A wall I planned to visit that evening. Certainly I couldn't buy myself a weapon. My service revolver was out of the question. Unbeknownst to him, Dan was my librarian of mass destruction. I would simply borrow something...with the intent to return.

As Ann's ringtone resonated through my ear,I realized in all likelihood, she was rounding up her brood of children for school. Briefly it made me think of my own kids and that soon enough I would have to ensure they were safely off to school. Since my unemployed husband would very shortly, no longer be around. As expected I had to leave a voice mail, and asked if the boys and I could come up for a visit that Friday night. Later that afternoon she returned my call and responded with an enthusiastic yes. I welcomed the solace of Friday night. The calm before the storm.

That morning when I arrived at work Jay was sitting at our desk. He was unusually early for our shift. I approached him to ask what brought him in so early.

Jay nervously replied, “I don't have time to chat right now, Mira. I have twenty minutes to get this done. I should've been here a goddamned hour ago. My stupid alarm clock didn't go off like it was supposed to. I set the damn thing, but can you believe it? Some asshole blew the service to our whole building.”

He continued, “ I talked to his girlfriend and she told me he was trying to get an amp to work with his new guitar. I guess he got the bright idea to cut the ground adapter on his amp to lessen the 'feedback'. Course needless to say, he forgot about his soaking wet rug from their all nighter keg party. The damn fool, the shock sent him sailing clear across the room.”

Jay continued with a slight chuckle, “His girlfriend called the ambulance. I guess he had some pretty bad burns and passed out too. What an ass, huh? Turns out he'll be fine, but what a goofball? Anyway, Mira I got to finish this report or it's my ass.”

Briefly I watched him looming over the keyboard, hunting and pecking at it with his thick stodgy fingers.

I took pity on him and said, “Scoot over, get up.“

He looked up at me with a surprised look of confusion.

I said, “Scoot over dummy, we don't have all day! You are never going to finish this in twenty minutes typing like that. Tell me what you need to write here. Just kneel down next to me.”

I nudged him out of the seat with my hand, in an attempt to be inconspicuous, yet with a certain sense of urgency.

As I took his seat, I hastily handed him a piece of paper from our outbox and said, “Take this report from last week and pretend like you are talking to me about it. You know, use your hands and stuff, play it up a bit, but talk softly; not too softly, hell you know what I mean. Just point a little at the paper and tell me what you need me to type here. We don't need anyone knowing I am typing your report for you. You don't need anyone giving you shit.”

As he slowly knelt down beside me with his goofy dumbfounded face, he looked up at me and with a sincere humble tone he said, “Thanks a lot, Mira. Thanks a lot. You really are saving my ass today.”

I replied, “No worries my friend. Someday I may need a favor from you. Anyway, you'd do the same for me, right?”

Jay nodded and business resumed as usual. No need to dwell on his embarrassing typing skills and last minute planning. Our workday went rather smooth without much incident, no arrests, just a few traffic stops and lunch. It was a nice segue for me, since I had a rather busy weekend ahead.

The following night, the children and I would visit Ann in New Hampshire. That evening when I arrived home, Alex was already off to his brother's house, since his bike was missing when I arrived. As expected, when I discovered his absence, the resident invisible two hundred pound weight evaporated from my shoulders. Thankfully, this meant less opportunity for an argument or uncomfortable forced friendly conversation.

 

Prior to leaving that night, I found a note bearing Alex's nearly illegible chicken scratch. It read, 'Off to my bro's house. See you later tonight, sweet cheeks. Love You!' At the bottom of his gut wrenching note, I scribbled, 'love you too.' The whole sickening exercise made me want to vomit but I would leave it there...for later. Conveniently. So family may see, but more importantly the police.

Later once I arrived at Ann's house, she came out to help me carry in some groceries I had bought on the way. As we walked into her house, she called me an asshole for being late, and it was as though we had picked up right where we left off. We had been friends for several years, and for us it always felt as though not a moment had passed. Ann is an attractive woman not mainly due to her outward appearance, but for the carefree demeanor she embraced. A woman who assumed a resolute and courageous spirit, a woman who laughed loud and often.

Truth is some could not tolerate her boisterous nature and shunned her before truly giving her a chance. With the slippery sheen of snake-like politician, she had a bold opinion for all things she believed true and just; all things from which sheepish souls would scramble as she sat squarely in your face. Together we were not for the faint of heart, as we both clutched life with the tenacity and heart of a lion.

After our enjoyable dinner consumed with sporadic outbursts of laughter and the clanging of our Merlot filled glasses, we made our way to her back porch as the children settled in with full tummies in front of the TV. We sat under the pink sunset that looked like fluffs of cotton candy melting from the sky, as the cool sting of the fall air settled on our shoulders and face. We sat under a canopy of bare trees; hearing nothing but the melodious hum of crickets and bugs looming in the thick of the green grass. 

 

After she had inhaled her nightly dose of weed, she sat in her dulled state of lucidity as she shared with me what had been going on the past few months. For a spell we shared what we had missed. She continued on about report cards, teenaged angst, the ex, baseball...the usual suspects. I carried on about my two until our respective scorecards were relatively even. Once the mosquitoes and bugs had begun their descent, and our trusty citronella candles were extinguished to their very nubs, Ann headed indoors.

As she collected her things, and wrapped her tattered shawl around her thin awkward shoulders she said, “See you inside bitch face. This shit is too cold and buggy for me.”

I said, “Be there in a minute. Just a few more minutes to myself, it's so quiet out here. Don't get this in the city.”

When she left me, I sat still in the brisk fall night, patiently waiting to ensure my trek to Dan's hunting room would go virtually unnoticed. As it was vitally important not to be noticed or heard. I left my seat and descended the badly rotting staircase which led to the back door of her basement. Close by were overfilled garbage cans stationed squarely amongst a graveyard of rain drenched beer boxes. As a waft of garbage smell and the pungent odor of mildew struck my face, I gently placed my ear against the frame of the door and listened for a few brief moments. Once I was certain I heard nothing I entered the house. 

Once I made my way to Dan's hunting room, I quickly surveyed my surroundings only to discover a haphazard cave of manliness. In front of me, there was a workbench littered with taxidermy tools, empty plates bearing remnants of rotting food and half empty bottles of cheap booze. A true man cave of sorts. As a collection of vapid expressionless stuffed creatures stared back at me with their deep ebony plastic sheen eyes, a spine-tingling chill fluttered down my left arm. Despite the overwhelming desire to leave, I hastily surveyed the weapons that clung to the pegboard. 

The blueish glow of the dangling harsh fluorescent light, filled the room with an unnatural hue making all the weapons seem that much more surreal. A grand serrated buck knife gleamed at the far right corner of the board, it's dark shimmer illuminated almost a violet tone. Its long handle bore plastic strips, to make it better for gripping. I drew closer to the weapon that gleamed in the light, as I studied it I could see my reflection staring back at me. I drew it closer to my eye to study the fine succession of serrations as I ran my forefinger along its side. I was certain this was the one. Oh yes, this was the knife.

The very knife I would lunge into my husband's neck like a finely cooked pork roast only to rip out spaghetti like shards of tendons from the base of his spine. I grabbed the knife from its peg, and later that night  I left Ann's home with two sleepy children and one very sharp fucking knife neatly tucked inside my Nike.

Chapter 5 - Save the Date.

 

“It is the same thing: killing, dying, it is the same thing: one is just as alone in each. He is lucky, he will only die once. As for me, for ten days I have been killing him at every minute.” - Jean Paul Sartre

That morning I sat with Gina swathed amongst a mist of misery, as she recounted the dreary details. While she described the assault, I jotted down each sentence nearly ripping the paper with the tip of my pen. I remember feeling out of my mind with anger, mostly for the fact that I had been experiencing the very same shit at home. But for the fact that Gina had not reached my same boiling point. I was the ticking time bomb that had already gone off. Where my collateral damage merely laid in wait.

When I wrapped things up with Gina I called out to Jay, once he came into the apartment I approached him and whispered in his ear, “She says he hit her, admits he put those marks on her arm and face, signed the statement too. Looks like this is gonna happen. You wanna go break the news?”

Once Jay approached Ron, he replied with the anticipated response, “No, this is bullshit! She doesn't want me to be arrested! Go ask her, she doesn't want it this way! I'm sure of it!”

As Jay began to grab Ron's right hand to put him in cuffs, Ron defiantly pulled away. The fortitude of Ron's pitiful physical challenge matched his pitiful stature, and only seconds passed until Jay's patience wore thin. Jay slammed Ron to the floor pinning his meager frame to the shoddy filth laden carpet as Ron's left cheek smashed against the baseboard of the hallway. The commotion swiftly serrated what shred of serenity remained in those dimly lit hallways. The hastened turbulence careened through the hallway like a bulldozer, shaking the building to its very core.

Jay's thick stodgy knee pinned Ron to the floor as he cuffed him. That day Ron laid in the hallway of his decrepit castle blubbering like a little girl. It was a sight to see...indeed. During our ride to the station, Ron muttered his useless pleas of innocence. Booze does brings out the best in people; sometimes emotional hogwash. Sometimes... if you're lucky, you'll get a peek at their innermost sissy pants. This was always enjoyable, especially when countering with the likes of Ron Steenley. There seemed to be a use for these kind after all...entertainment. 

 

While Jay endured the booking process with Ron, I granted myself a few moments of solitude at my desk under the guise of drafting incident reports. Truth is, I was in dire need of aspirin, as my earlier dosage had worn off and a headache was slowly creeping in. Jay and I shared a desk, but I noticed that my assigned voicemail was blinking. I had shut off my blackberry for the day, and of course as expected, a message from Alex loomed behind that red blinking dot. -I detested his loathsome predictability-

Reluctantly I hit the button only to hear his caustic voice resonate through my head, “Hey, hunny it's me, I just wanted to call and let you know that I heard from this guy, Carl, he works at HP. Anyway, he called to tell me I got the job I interviewed for last week. He said I could start next week, Monday morning. So I want to go out for dinner tonight to celebrate! Maybe you can wear that black dress you wore to dinner on our anniversary? I love that dress.”

Notice the complete omission of an apology? I hadn't expected one, and it wouldn't have mattered. Even when he offered an apology it was always followed by a caveat, 'I'm sorry, but you shouldn't have done....'. Who could be bothered with such utter crap? I saw no justice in his actions, and neither would anyone else if they had known what happened behind our walls. Frankly, If he had told me the Queen stopped by to use our toilet, I would have sooner bought that over an apology from his hateful lips. It was no matter, the only thing I wanted from him those days was an obituary with his name on it.

Now I had the remainder of the day to dream up reasonable excuses as to why I was turning down his gracious dinner invite; for which I would have undoubtedly paid. By nightfall my stomach was mangled with anxious knots; rendering myself a rather poor dinner companion. At the time, I would have preferred the company of a stinky hobo, rather than enduring the agonizing tales of Alex.

As I later discovered, his new job was merely a glorified shipping position with a smattering of IT knowledge. For a few short weeks, he would call himself an “IT organizational tech”. His detestable existence was only justified amidst the the cloud of his sociopathic mind when showered with recognition for a mediocre job well done. 'Hey look at my piece of shit job! I'm important! Look at me!' He was plagued with the most abhorrent case of LAM syndrome -a.k.a.: look at me syndrome- This particular affliction seemed to plague him worst than an army of toddlers.

When I opened my front door that night, there Alex stood at the top of our stairs, ready for our “date”; all five foot five of him. He was sporting his super fly button down shirt and a pair of tan jeans (circa 1992). Just when you thought there was no end in sight for the comic relief...enter stage right with one brown leather bomber jacket. The only thing that could have topped this dreadful fashion statement was a “members only” jacket. -surely he had one of those stashed away-

On his feet were ankle high leather boots with a one and a half inch heel. Along with his crippling case of OCD, he could never bring himself to throw away the most useless of trash. These particular boots had likely seen the streets of Boston since Reagan was in office. In fact, one day I caught him shamelessly scribbling black sharpie marker on the backside of a boot. I called these bad boys his 'man heels', they would make him appear just a bit taller than me; so as not to bruise his effeminate man boy ego.

The qualities one could lend to his Napoleanesque type traits, were his stature that matched the pathetic length and girth of his stubby little penis. In fact, our first time together I wasn't sure if he had penetrated me or poked me beneath the covers with a vienna sausage.

On our first date, I thought he was kinda cute; even though he carried on about himself nearly the entire evening. When he asked to go dutch treat he conveniently miscalculated his share for the three gin and tonics he threw done his gullet. Admittedly, he was fairly charming at first. I tried to look beyond the bad.

We were a rather odd couple, and left most people baffled scratching their heads in utter amazement. Alex would pride himself on being a “ladies man”, but in all likelihood the women that threw themselves at him were either drunk or mentally challenged. To date I'm still trying to figure out what this said about me, but at one point in time I allowed myself to somehow be charmed. That ship had long since sailed. In fact, it had capsized....with no lifeboats to speak of.

After a few short months of dating, he proposed insisting on a quick marriage. Now when I reflect upon that time, I believe he rushed the marriage as he could no longer hold back the ugliness that lurked inside. The one that most of us knew and despised. The ugly I came to know in time. Coincidentally, at his wake only two of his siblings showed -he had eleven-. It was a rainy day and the maple trees that hovered overhead sprinkled more tears from their leaves than any eye had shed that day. The only tears were mine... and were manufactured for effect. His children came bearing cold hugs and shallow sentiments.

In the beginning, for Alex and I, everything was fairly peachy keen. Until he slowly unveiled the monster inside. Once the children and I were invited to live in “his home”, a calculated list of do's and dont's were presented to us. Albeit not a written list, but a list that would eventually reveal itself with time. We were merely guests in his home. Guests that couldn't step or play on his grass. Guests that had to wipe themselves down with an assigned towel before stepping onto his bathmat. Guests that had to endure slaps and shoves should the remote turn up missing.

Now Alex was on borrowed time. He would continue to try and salvage the laughable union we shared. Much like tonight's request to go out for dinner. Too little too late. Nothing could save this asshole now. Not a damn thing.

That night as he stood there eagerly awaiting our departure for dinner, he approached me with a fake grin and exclaimed, “Honey, I got a job! I got it! Wahoo!” 

 

He embraced me with his half assed hug and then pecked my cheek with his tightly pursed lips. It was the kind of kiss you give your great aunt or grandmother when you saw them every third year for Easter. His sickening kisses were yet another reminder of our situation; which was merely a convenience that kept him out off the streets when he fucked up gainful employment. When this happened, I would be there to hold down the fort; a much needed yet unwanted houseguest. Soon enough he wouldn't have to concern himself with bills or the like. Soon enough his foremost concern would certainly be the nine inch buck knife I planned to lunge through the back of his head. Thankfully, the last woeful concern to plague his simple mind.

When he stepped back and looked at me, my face surely relayed my restrained enthusiasm. It was a long day, I was off my game and I just didn't have it in me.

He stood back and looked at me saying, “What's the matter? Aren't you happy for me? You still want to go out for dinner with us tonight, right?”

I replied, “I'm sorry Alex, I'm happy for you I am just so tired after work today. Can we just schedule this for another night? This weekend my mom can take the boys and we can go out, just you and I. We can go to a nicer place. You know, like that nice Italian restaurant you like. How's that sound?”

No sooner had I spoken these words, within a nanosecond his face blossomed like a freshly steamed radish. His complexion would change drastically whenever his temper was about to boil over. This effect made for a rather accurate asshole barometer. You could generally predict when dread was forthcoming, as his complexion would gleam with the likes of Chernobyl.

What came next was one of his favorite side show acts, what I came to know as the “wedding ring toss”. All he needed now was a super mini-sized car so he could join the circus with a myriad of midgets adorning their best clown like attire. This particular side show, as he had a few, consisted of him ripping his wedding ring from the grips of his bulging finger fat and then tossing it wherever it may land. This charade was always accompanied with a fresh bouquet of profanity clinging to the air. After he wrestled the ring from his finger he sent it sailing, as it ricocheted directly up and pinged off his eyebrow...much like a foul ball -only more entertaining-.

After his rousing display of infancy he stormed off to his office and yelled, “You are so selfish! You knew how much I was looking forward to this! I was looking forward to this all day, and all you can do is think of your goddamned self! God, I am so sick and tired of your bullshit! Don't come talk to me, just leave me the fuck alone! You useless bitch!”

I daydreamed about him losing his foolish ring. He operated under the misguided impression that I continued to wear mine as a symbol of allegiance to delusional dictatorship. He was mistaken, I only continued wear it so as not to arouse suspicion when I finally him released him from the clutches of his miserable existence. I had considered baking his ring in a cake, and then gleefully watch as he choked on the foolish thing. I had decided against it, since Saint Peter would most assuredly scratch my name from his blessed list.

More often than I care to admit, when I came home to this shit, I wanted so badly to pick up the phone and vent to mom and friends. But I squelched this desire and internalized every heaping dose of crap he served up. As most women would surely attest, internalizing all of these feelings made for one nasty mess to eventually clean; for now, I swept it under the rug. Now my mess had become an unsightly carpet covered white elephant planted square in the center of my home.

That night Alex wouldn't receive any complaints from me as to his request for silence. Actually, I rather enjoyed not sitting across from him that night, affecting my engagement with the crap that dribbled from his mouth. I was happy to pay the price for a quiet night at home... or what I had thought was going to be a quiet night at home. I had predicted a little game of “wedding ring toss” but not that evening's main attraction.

That night once my boys were tucked in bed, I went downstairs to our room where Alex loomed with a beer in hand and his back squarely against our headboard. He sat stoic and unmoved and continued to dismiss my presence altogether, as I crossed the room to my bureau. His festering anger was so thick, it was as though I was enveloped with a sheath of rage as it dripped from our maroon walls. For the moment he seemed unmoved by my presence, but just beneath the surface lurked a maelstrom of obscenities.

I wasn't sure what I was in for that evening, but I knew I had to sleep in that bed to avoid another all night brawl. As I pulled my shirt overhead to change into my pajamas, a smattering of bruises were revealed just above my elbow. I had forgotten about these particular war wounds of sorts, but now with their ripening yellowish hue...they were hard to miss. Briefly, I ran my hand down the side of my arm to feel the subtle bumps that were raised just beneath my multi-colored skin.

For a fleeting moment, I could feel his eyes on me. Then quickly his eyes averted toward the TV screen as he raised his beer to his lips. He always pretended they weren't there, the bruises that is, and if the were, they would always somehow be my fault.

After about ten minutes of welcomed silence he asked me, “So, are you just going to sit there and ignore me all night?”

With Alex I always felt as though I had spiraled back in time to seventh grade. There was no accounting for maturity with this man. His outward appearance was not foretelling of the actual paucity of common sense he accumulated throughout the years. It was clear, he never learned when to leave well enough alone.

As I sat on the foot of our bed slipping socks from my feet I replied, “I just don't have anything to talk about, and I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow so I would just rather relax and talk about this later.”

He replied, “Doesn't it bother you that we don't talk anymore and that you go around ignoring me all the time? I mean what is your issue? You used to want to talk about it when we fought and now all you do is avoid me?”

The first thought that entered my mind, 'it's because I hate your filthy rotten guts.'

Of course, like always, what I wanted to say, was exactly what I couldn't say.

I quickly conjured up something of substance in an effort to ward him off, “It's not that I don't care, Alex. I just don't want to talk tonight, ok? Can we just talk about this later, please?”

Immediately after my response he stood to his feet and ripped the blanket from his body to the floor, as he stood in the middle of the room purposely obstructing my view of the TV...seething with clenched teeth. Here we go, I was in for it tonight.

It didn't matter that my children were sleeping, his nut had finally cracked, and then came the yelling, “You just want to go to sleep?! Don't you ever think of how I am feeling?! You know I have been depressed and you refuse to read those articles I printed about depression! You refuse to go back to counseling with me! You refuse to go to dinner with me and refuse to talk to me when I ask?! What the fuck is going on with you?! You aren't going to keep sweeping this under the rug and ignoring me! What are you cheating on me?! What is going on, Mira? Unless you talk to me right fucking now you aren't getting a wink of sleep! I will make sure of it. I will make your night hell, like I did last night!”

With the shred of gumption that remained in my quickly wilting spirit, I made my way to the bathroom for refuge. I locked the door hoping for peaceful solitude in the one place where one would should reasonably expect. Quickly, I engaged the lock behind me with trembling hands and tried to soothe my contorted tummy. Sadness, Fear and loathing consumed me, it overwhelmed me daily, nightly and by the second more and more as the days had passed. I hadn't expected tears to flow...yet they had. They spattered onto the flat surface of my blackberry clutched in my hands, and then slid onto my cool shivering knees. Restraining muffled sobs only further rendered my body aching with what seemed like a crippling angst.

Before I had a chance to soothe myself with a spell of mind numbing web browsing on my blackberry, he startled me as he rapidly pounded his fist against the door jarring its entire frame.

Once I collected myself I replied with a cool refrain, “Please just leave me alone, I just want to be left alone.”

In his unrelenting quest to antagonize me, he continued with the berating and profanity. That's when my youngest son, Anthony, came out of his room and asked, “What's wrong?”

To which Alex replied “Get your ass back in bed, and mind his own damn business!”

Such a swell guy. Unfortunately, regret and shame was the expensive price I now paid.

I remember sitting there that night with my ass cheeks pressed against my cool wooden toilet seat cover, silently praying for what seemed like hours that he would just let me be. Then suddenly a clamorous bombardment of his fists pounding on the surface of the door sent my heart palpitating so loud that its beat became the only thing I could hear amidst my terror filled mind.

For a fleeting moment once the pounding ceased, I felt like I could breath again, as I though I had been breathing through a thick wool sheet. Then the sharp wooden crackle of the door's frame unexpectedly collided with the solitude that was my space. Where I thought I had solace had quickly become the stomping ground for his unrelenting rage; as the door suddenly careened from its hinge sending shards of wood toward me, and with a impetuous slam it smashed against our tiled floor. With intent force he charged toward me as he plunged his feet against the door's surface sending a deep crack down its center splitting it in two. Within seconds I was dangling from his fist as he pinned my vulnerable frame against our bathroom wall.

Instantly he rendered me gasping for air, with his hands grasped tightly around my neck like a tautly strung leather brace. With my body pinned against the wall, he shoved his body against mine and placed the bridge of his nose directly on mine.

A scented warm rush of hops and weed hit my face along with random spurts of frothy spit as he screamed in my face, “You think you are going to put me through this? You're not going to do this, you bitch! You are my wife! This is not ending with divorce! I waited years to remarry and this isn't going to happen like you want! I will fight you to the end and make your life hell! So you better straighten your ass out and change your fucking attitude, because I have had enough of your shit! Don't play fuck fuck with me because I will make your life a living hell!! You got that, bitch?! Got it?”

At that moment despite my state of near unconsciousness, he expected me to promptly answer. Amidst a cloud of an unmitigated rage, the reality of the situation at hand seemed to allude him; as though we were having an ordinary conversation and I was expected to immediately reply. As he continued to ask through tightly clenched teeth, “Huh, well do you get it? Do you fucking get it or not?! Answer me!?”

That night I remember thinking, while pinned against my wall wearing my best Wal-Mart pink laced jammies, that I was going to die that night. That I was going to die just a foot above my toilet. Toiling with regret for not killing him first. I remember thinking how much my kids would hurt, how my mother would cry; and as I peered into his widened eyes filled with hate, everything began to fade. Everything was was on mute as a legion of black dots began to infiltrate my eyes.

Despite his being a raging sociopath, a sudden stroke of conscience compelled him to release his grip from my neck. Too little too late, and apparently he didn't realize that by then, I had been rendered unconscious. Once he released me, my body abruptly fell as my forehead cracked the back of the toilet. Come to find out I had laid there for three hours, while he desperately tried to revive my consciousness. That stupid son of a bitch could have killed me that night.

Hours later I awoke with a sore throat and an indescribable headache. Once I finally sat up the first thing I saw was Alex crouched over me as he leaned forward and tried to caress my face with his hand. Instinctively I shied away. Once a sharp sting pierced my forehead, I lifted my hand to discover the culprit, my fingers grazed a shard of porcelain that had lodged itself in my now blood encrusted eyebrow. I sat on the floor trying to collect myself. Then it occurred to me, 'Why hadn't he called for help? Would he have sooner let me die than call for help? Sick bastard'

I recoiled from him on the cool tile floor and brought my knees up to my chest as I wrapped my arms around them. I sat staring at him in amazement as he began to sob, carrying on about how sorry he was and about how it would never happen again. I wasn't really listening, in fact all I clearly remember was thinking about how he could have killed me. He could have killed me next to the damn toilet! But most importantly what I remember that night was a strange sense of elation wash over me as a cool shiver ran through me. The irony of my happiness was that I knew this was the last time. The last time he would ever do this to me or anyone else.

When I was finally able to speak my voice rendered a scratchy tone. In order to fend off any further attacks I hastily rendered a nearly inaudible plea, “Ok, Ok, you got it, Alex. You know what, don't worry about it, this will all get better; I promise. I will go back to counseling with you and read the articles you gave me. I will try harder. Can we just please go to bed now.”

He sat with me on the floor, and cupped his face in his hands.

As he quickly conjured up a batch of fake tears he looked up at me and said, “That's all I want. I just want this to be better. I don't want to lose you. Don't make me mad like this anymore. It just isn't worth it, hunny. You know what I mean?”

I couldn't believe how this man's mind worked. How fucked up he truly was. That he had expected this to continue... forever.

When he finally helped me up from the floor, I made my way to our bedroom where I would curl up and pray that this was all a bad dream, and that he would quietly die in his sleep. Forever dissipating into the realm of to be forgotten by all, much like a bad dream, and then to resume life as it should be. I had said that prayer for many nights, for so long I couldn't tell you when I had begun. God never answered my prayers, I figure this was his way of making me stronger...forcing me to take care of him on my own. 

 

I now knew this was a journey I must make on my own.