and he was cursing and shouting and spit glommed on to every word coming out of his mouth. She smelled alcohol, stale cologne and a spike of rancid breath. He tore her blouse and jammed a knee into her thigh, making a red impression that turned blue, black and yellow in the days that followed. She tried to roll and twist and squirm away, and she pushed against his chest with both elbows, and she screamed, screamed again, and this only made him more combative. When he finally fought her pants down and then her panties, he couldn’t have sex, humped her limp-dicked and slithered and ground and clawed her shoulders and scratched her neck, bit her nipple, drew blood. He was furious, enraged, and he slapped her and blubbered and caterwauled and said more than once, “Look what you’ve done to me, you bitch.”
He wrestled her into the bedroom and crashed down on top of her. Muttering and groping her, he soon passed out, his dead, worthless weight smothering her, and when he awakened, his wife, bruised and with a cracked rib and two broken fingers, wearing a pair of sweatpants, barefoot, still in her ripped blouse, was standing above him resting a .38 caliber Taurus revolver against his lips. The gun was a gift from her daddy. Big-city protection.
“Alton,” she said, calm as could be, “I’m done with this.”
He was groggy and sluggish. He closed his eyes. She inserted the short barrel of the gun into his mouth, felt the steel bump against his front teeth. He blinked, grunted, began to focus.
“Here’s how this is going to work,” she said in the same deliberate voice. “We both know I’m not going to kill you, though you deserve it, and I could pull it off pretty easy. The cops would take a look at me,talk to whoever you bribed to let you in and discover you’re full of dope and liquor. It’d be self-defense.”
“Whoaammm, uh, lisnnn.” The sounds stuck mostly in his throat, clogged there. “Lissn.”
“No. You listen.” She glared at him. He appeared to be rejoining her, his expression starting to animate. “First off, you’re going to apologize. Say you’re sorry.” She raised the gun slightly.
“Am. I am.”
“And next you are going to humiliate yourself, just like you’ve humiliated me.”
He narrowed his eyes, unsure. His lips twitched.
“You and your shriveled little penis are goin’ to say, ‘I’m a piece of shit and a failure as a man.’ ”
He stared up at her. She noticed he was breathing through his mouth.
“Right now.”
“Ha. Uh-uh. No.”
“I’ll ask you once more.”
“You won’t do anything.” His hair was oily, messy, every which direction. One thin black strand stuck against his forehead and reached to his eyebrow, as if a fissure had begun, a dark split. He still had on socks and a shirt, which was mostly unfastened. She noticed he was tan to the middle of his groin, then pallid, then tan again, the different hues born of years spent lounging around in various tanning salons, a vanity he never neglected and bought with fraud and slick lies.
“Last chance.”
He flickered a grin, smug and spiteful, then lurched toward her, and in a smooth, quicksilver sweep she swung the gun sideways, set it at an angle against the thick of his biceps and pulled the trigger, bang, and she felt relief and satisfaction and a wicked, tit-for-tat joy, and it was a chore to stop at the single shot. Alton screamed and clutched his arm and blood started to color the bed, and it seemed to her the harsh explosion from the .38 stayed with them in the room for several seconds, loud, lingering, echoing, commanding.
“Alton, I’ll shoot you again.”
He was whimpering and cursing, saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth.
“Come on, Alton: ‘I’m a piece of shit and a failure as a man.’ Easy to say. And oh so true.”
“I hate you, you awful whore,” he shouted, but for the first time ever the words were puny and inert, their menace waning.
“The sooner you
He wrestled her into the bedroom and crashed down on top of her. Muttering and groping her, he soon passed out, his dead, worthless weight smothering her, and when he awakened, his wife, bruised and with a cracked rib and two broken fingers, wearing a pair of sweatpants, barefoot, still in her ripped blouse, was standing above him resting a .38 caliber Taurus revolver against his lips. The gun was a gift from her daddy. Big-city protection.
“Alton,” she said, calm as could be, “I’m done with this.”
He was groggy and sluggish. He closed his eyes. She inserted the short barrel of the gun into his mouth, felt the steel bump against his front teeth. He blinked, grunted, began to focus.
“Here’s how this is going to work,” she said in the same deliberate voice. “We both know I’m not going to kill you, though you deserve it, and I could pull it off pretty easy. The cops would take a look at me,talk to whoever you bribed to let you in and discover you’re full of dope and liquor. It’d be self-defense.”
“Whoaammm, uh, lisnnn.” The sounds stuck mostly in his throat, clogged there. “Lissn.”
“No. You listen.” She glared at him. He appeared to be rejoining her, his expression starting to animate. “First off, you’re going to apologize. Say you’re sorry.” She raised the gun slightly.
“Am. I am.”
“And next you are going to humiliate yourself, just like you’ve humiliated me.”
He narrowed his eyes, unsure. His lips twitched.
“You and your shriveled little penis are goin’ to say, ‘I’m a piece of shit and a failure as a man.’ ”
He stared up at her. She noticed he was breathing through his mouth.
“Right now.”
“Ha. Uh-uh. No.”
“I’ll ask you once more.”
“You won’t do anything.” His hair was oily, messy, every which direction. One thin black strand stuck against his forehead and reached to his eyebrow, as if a fissure had begun, a dark split. He still had on socks and a shirt, which was mostly unfastened. She noticed he was tan to the middle of his groin, then pallid, then tan again, the different hues born of years spent lounging around in various tanning salons, a vanity he never neglected and bought with fraud and slick lies.
“Last chance.”
He flickered a grin, smug and spiteful, then lurched toward her, and in a smooth, quicksilver sweep she swung the gun sideways, set it at an angle against the thick of his biceps and pulled the trigger, bang, and she felt relief and satisfaction and a wicked, tit-for-tat joy, and it was a chore to stop at the single shot. Alton screamed and clutched his arm and blood started to color the bed, and it seemed to her the harsh explosion from the .38 stayed with them in the room for several seconds, loud, lingering, echoing, commanding.
“Alton, I’ll shoot you again.”
He was whimpering and cursing, saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth.
“Come on, Alton: ‘I’m a piece of shit and a failure as a man.’ Easy to say. And oh so true.”
“I hate you, you awful whore,” he shouted, but for the first time ever the words were puny and inert, their menace waning.
“The sooner you
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