Work Text:
A two-bedroom apartment on the third floor. Small but necessary now that we had two little ones. I remember the smells of the place. The cloyingly spicy smell of either Indian or tai food, I’m not sure which. I didn’t know ANY of my neighbors. The stale acrid odor of urine that permeated the lone elevator. Sometimes it was sweltering in that place. We never had to use our heater, being on the 3rd floor, we got all the residual heat from the floors below.
The galley style kitchen is to the right of the entry. It is done in a yellowish green color you might see in classic TV shows. There are dishes waiting to be washed in the kitchen sink. The living room is straight ahead, if you can call in a living room. A small TV, and game console sit on a rolling cart, in front of the lone seat. The stripped love-seat we received from my parents. In the right-hand corner are two desks, desktop computers sit upon said desks, mine and his.
To the right is the hallway that leads to the single bathroom, also done in that ancient pukey hue, and the two bedrooms. Our room is cramped with the queen bed, the 2 dressers, nightstand, and closet. Half the closet holds my clothing; the other half is full of his crap.
The boys room holds their blue dresser, Dyl’s brown wood crib, and Pat’s white metal toddler bed. And toys, mustn’t forget the toys: blocks, electronic games, stuffies, and little sharp things that always seem to find their way under my bare feet.
I work hard to take care of my boys and our home, while he sits on his ass night and day in front of one screen or the other. Sometimes I wonder to myself, why bother. It’s not worth the effort. But I don’t have anything else to do.
I am getting tired of his abuse. Nothing physical… yet. He seems to like belittling me, and making me think that I am a bad mother, and a bad wife. He forgets that I have been bullied by others far more adept at nasty words then he. “You don’t clean like my mother does.” He would say, a sneer upon his lips and a dismissive turn of his head. Nothing I do ever seems good enough. But the blame is never on him. Oh, no. He’s perfect.
“Dishes need washing… oh and don’t forget to take out the trash.” He would say with a wave of his hand, or “Why can’t you keep up with the laundry?” Honestly, you try taking 3 loads of laundry, detergent, etc. and 2 kids under the age of 3, down three flights of stairs (to avoid the smelly elevator) and all the way across the complex to one of their nasty, dark, moldy smelling laundry rooms. Heaven forbid he should watch his own sons while I do the laundry.
The headaches, great beating drums of wood and steel in my skull, have started again. Stealing my already weak vision, making any noises seem amplified to the nth degree. They make caring for the kids so difficult, but I do it, they are my boys.
I have tried to put up with so much from him, tried to make this marriage work. But even I have limits. He came home last night, after “hanging out with his friends”, reeking of sex. Does he think I’m stupid?
I warned him, there were only two ways I would leave him. If he cheated on me or if he ever tried to hit me. That’s how it started and ended.
Me asking, him denying yet not denying. Voices rising with each passing moment. Then Pat, my handsome little 3-year-old Patrick, pulls on his father’s pants leg, “… stop yelling, daddy.” Just trying to calm him down.
What happened next is the straw that broke the camel’s back. He turned to his first born, and shouted at him to “…shut-up, I never wanted you anyway.”
My heart turned to darkest ice in that moment. Black as night, a part of me rose up, desperate to defend my young. I stepped between them, “Why would you say that, he’s just a baby.” I honestly don’t remember what he said next, it didn’t matter to me anymore, just more words.
But I remember what he did. He raised his hand, as if to strike me. I was not having that, in no way, shape or form. “I fucking dare you…” defiance and a new found blisteringly hot hatred taking root in my mind.
“We live on the third floor, I have absolutely no qualms about throwing your ass off that balcony, if that hand moves another inch.” He dropped his hand to his side.
I collected 2 bags together, a small one for myself, and the diaper bag for my boys. We walked out the door, down the hall, and out of his life, forever. And the sad part… he didn’t even care.