Fury on Sunday by Richard Matheson

it.”
    “No, I want to know.” He knew very well he was punishing himself now.
    “Will you go to bed?” Jane said. “Go to bed before I insult you some more.”
    “Seems to me you have always insulted me,” he said, surprised at his own mild courage.
    She looked at him over the edge of her drink and he watched her thin throat move while she swallowed the drink. Those eyes, those cold blue eyes; detached, always inspecting.
    “You ain’t heard nothin’ yet,” she slurred. “Go to bed, will you?”
    “I—”
    “For Christ’s sake, will you go to bed!”
    There was almost an anguish in her voice; as if, in spite of her despising him, she wanted to reach out for comfort. He half started to his feet, his face lined with concern for her.
    But when she saw him coming toward her, she almost recoiled into the cushion of the chair.
    “
Don’t come near me
,” she said, her voice thick with loathing.
    His brow furrowed with lack of understanding. He stood in the middle of the room looking at her with blank eyes.
    Her voice was almost hysterical. “I swear to God I’ll jump off the balcony if you don’t get out of here.”
    He stiffened momentarily.
    “Now see here, Jane.”
    “What are you,” she asked, “a whipping post? Don’t you ever know when to quit?”
    “Jane, I…”
    “Is it possible, is it at all possible that I can make you quit?” she said, her voice a throaty insult. “Is there anything in the world I can say to make you bristle? Is there
one
insult in the whole world that will make you fight?”
    “Honey, why don’t you take a sedative and—”
    “A sedative!”
    A breathless gasp of laughter tore back her lips.
    “Dear Christ, a sedative he wants me to take!” Her head shook quickly. “No, no, I’ll bet there isn’t. I’ll bet there isn’t a single insult in the world that would make you angry. I bet I could insult your whole family down to the last person and I could call you everything in the book and it wouldn’t make any difference at all.”
    “Jane…”
    “Oh—
Jesus
, will you shut up! You fool, you dolt, you ignoramus. You jerk, you—you
fat slob
!”
    He recoiled under her words.
    “There!” she snapped triumphantly. “Maybe I
can
get you to fight. You pig, you revolting mass of…”
    The urge left as quickly as it had come. She sank back and the fire went out of her eyes. In an instant she had fallen into complete depression again. She reached out the glass to put it on the table beside the chair, but she didn’t make it and the glass went thumping to the floor. She sat there twisting on the chair.
    Stan had put his drink down on the table by the couch. He was still shaking from her words, his body throbbing with the pain of them. Without a word he stumbled past her chair and into the darkened bedroom. He sank down on his bed and his head dropped forward until his chin rested on his chest. He sat looking into the living room as Jane moved into sight and lay down on the couch. She had the bottle of whiskey with her and she took a drink from it. She was going to get drunk, he knew. She was going to drive herself into a cloud of forgetfulness.
    He fell back on the pillow and lay there in the silence, his eyes closed, listening to the sound of his own breathing, heavy and wheezing in the darkness. He fell into a troubled half-sleep.
    He wasn’t sure whether it was a dream or not. But it seemed as if he heard the doorbell ringing. The buzzing sound seemed to penetrate the thick layers of darkness. He stirred slightly on the mattress, his mouth twitching a little.
    Then the cry of fright jerked him up to a sitting position, his eyes wide and staring, his heart jolting against his chest wall.
    “What in God’s—” he started to mutter, not even conscious of speaking.
    Quickly, trembling, he dropped his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up.
    “I said lock the door!” he heard someone command in the front hall.
    That voice. It drove like a lance into his