Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Enough


This story was originally published on 52stories.net

Dana hung up the phone and stood at the bedroom window. She looked out over the dock to her brother waiting next to the idling shore boat. Behind her, Stan lumbered up the stairs. He took one deliberately slow step after another, allowing the echo of each stomp to resound throughout the house.

Stan stopped at the landing and looked up the hall toward the bedroom. A pool of light bled into the hallway, and he watched for shadows. Inside the bedroom, Dana eyed her coat that was draped over the recliner, focusing on the pocket holding the gun. Another thump coming from the hallway, then another. Dana turned and met Stan’s eyes as he entered the room. He was an imposing figure - six feet four inches tall, but another inch or so with his work boots which he insisted wearing everywhere – even around the house. He had thinning black hair which was drawn back to a weak pony tail. An unkempt goatee punctuated an otherwise handsome face that, at one time, Dana mistook as kind. “Who was on the phone?” Stan asked, picking at his fingernails with a match book cover. This was how the attacks always started. Dana knew his questions held no more relevance than her answers. Two weeks prior Stan stormed into the room and asked “Who ate the last of the cereal?!?” That simple query was the spark of outburst that left Dana with a black eye and a dislocated shoulder. Over the years Dana had tried being sweet, tough, loving, even crazy, but each charade ended the same way. So now she just said whatever came to mind. This time she told the truth. “Peter.” Dana said. “It was Peter on the phone.” Stan’s brow narrowed as he spoke, “Did you tell your brother that he doesn’t need to call here everyday? Did you tell him I can take care of my own damn wife? Did ya?!? His bloodshot eyes drilled into Dana’s. She held his gaze. “The subject didn’t come up.” Dana said. “What did you say?!?” Stan said, leaning toward her. Dana backed up a half of a step, keeping herself in line with the recliner.

“You’re talking back to me, Dana.” Stan took a big step forward and Dana walked backward quickly until she felt her coat behind her and the heavy pocket bounce against her calf. “Jesus, you’re jumpy.” Stan giggled as he spoke. “Are you taking the medication that the doctor prescribed to calm your nerves, because I don’t think I’ve seen you move that fast in six months.” Stan took one more stop toward her. “I shouldn’t have to move at all you know.” Dana said, gripping her coat with her right hand. “Well, that’s true, my dear, that’s true. And we’ve talked about ways that we could work things out – arrangements that would make things a little less. . .” he paused, searching for the right word “. . . troublesome around here. But each time we agree on one of these arrangements, you seem to forget the rules; now isn’t that right little lady?” Stan took another step. “Don’t come any closer Stan!” Stan stood and smiled, combing his mustache with his thumb and index finger, then drawing them down to his goatee and scratching his chin as if deep in thought. “My, aren’t you feisty.” Stan brought both feet together, snapped his heels, and gave Dana a salute. “Okay, I won’t move, but I want you to do me a little favor – alright?” After hundreds of attacks, this was the part that Dana used to fear the most - the part where the predator toys with its prey before making the final, killing blow. This time, it was Dana’s turn. She blinked once and licked her lips.

Stan stood four feet from Dana, staring at her waist. He reached out his right hand and pointed at her with his index and middle finger held together in the shape of a gun. His eyes moved to Dana’s chest, then he swept his fingers inward, motioning for her to loosen her robe. Dana didn’t move. She did what she always did – stood perfectly still. But this time instead of quietly cursing herself for lacking the courage to leave him, she thought about the boat waiting, of life somewhere off this island.

Stan’s power over Dana had been waning for several months, and this enraged him even more. The beatings had gotten worse, but as they did, Dana gradually put up less and less of a fight. The terror and contempt she once harbored for Stan began migrating inward, infesting her like an unchecked virus. During the past several months she came to the baffling, disturbing conclusion that she had become her own worst enemy. More and more she regarded Stan as a mindless, faceless entity that roamed the house, beat her, raped her, and then moved back into the shadows. She knew she had to leave, but now it wasn’t because of what he did to her, it was because of what he had forced her to become. She remembers the first time she felt the crack of Stan’s knuckles against her cheek and thought she deserved the punch. The first time he sodomized her and she felt relieved that someone had the power to punish her properly for being so inadequate. She stood in the bedroom hundreds of times and listened for Stan to pound up the stairs. In the beginning she was petrified. Over time though, fear changed to anger which then, only recently, had turned into anticipation. Stan needed to be eliminated because he was no longer just an abusive husband; he had become the agent of Dana’s self-destruction. Even as she stared right at him, she didn’t see Stan at all; she saw that pathetic, weak bully in the back of the class who constantly flicked her ear; the cockroach on the kitchen floor scurrying for the shadows, just begging to be crushed.

Stan made the motion with his fingers again. Dana felt a chill pulse through her and a thin smile grow across her lips. She let go of the coat and slowly parted her robe revealing a white T-shirt. Sam grinned, pointed to the bottom of the shirt, and motioned upwards. Dana closed her eyes in a prolonged blink, swooned toward Stan, and felt herself succumbing to another attack. She felt the temptation to lean into the sweet sting of his first blow, to open herself to his brutish thrusting. Her body tingled with anticipation of the punishment she knew she deserved. She could almost taste the comforting warmth of blood in her mouth. She opened her eyes, stared at the hideous stranger in front of her and reached back for her coat. Not anymore. She would not allow this night to become another bad memory. Instead, she would remember this night as the one when the faceless, hulking entity she used to call her husband went through his final metamorphosis. The night when she flipped the switch, watched the cockroach scurry, and lowered her heal with a resounding crunch.

1 comment:

Ema said...

What a great story! I wish it had been even longer so we could know exactly how she finally stopped hating herself and why she allowed that kind of treatment in the first place?! (and even feel that she deserved it!)
I'm so glad that she finally decided to do some housecleaning and get rid of that nasty cockroach!