I sat huddled in the corner of the living room, the cold floor serving as my refuge. Thoughts raced through my mind, a chaotic mix of everything and nothing at all. My gaze drifted to the windows, now open in the stormy night, allowing cold air and rain to invade our home. Water and leaves blew in, leaving everything damp. I made a mental note to clean up the mess later, but there were more pressing matters at hand.
The dining room was in disarray, with food scattered everywhere. I glanced wearily at the bright red beetroot stain on the white shag carpet. If I didn’t attend to it soon, the stain would set, and we’d have to consider replacing the carpet. Money was always a sensitive topic, one that filled me with anxiety.
But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t utter a sound.
I wondered if the neighbors had heard the commotion, and part of me hoped they had. Perhaps they would call the police, and salvation would be within reach. Yet, I also dreaded the judgment and pity that would follow. The unspoken question, “Why do you stay?” would hang in the air, a constant reminder of my predicament.
My legs began to cramp from the fetal position I had assumed. My therapist had always urged me to be mindful of my body, to understand how my emotions manifested physically. But he couldn’t comprehend the depth of my situation, his perspective clouded by societal norms. A new wave of dread washed over me, knowing that I would have to relive this ordeal in therapy.
I shifted my thoughts, wondering if the police would believe me this time. Pain called my attention back to my body, and I realized that my ankle was broken, accompanied by a purplish bruise on my left arm. Concealing these marks would require long sleeves and pants for a while. He always seemed to know where to hurt me, where the evidence would remain hidden from prying eyes.
In a paradoxical twist, warmth began to spread around me, bringing with it a chilling sensation. I hadn’t noticed before, but a pool of blood surrounded me, originating from the gash in my thigh. Memories of the entire encounter flooded back, shock enveloping me once again. I started to consider different scenarios for the next few moments.
Should I wait for him to tire himself out or pass out from the alcohol before seeking help?
Should I risk getting up and potentially awakening his latent violence?
Or should I simply let go, embracing the blissful oblivion that beckoned?
A fervent prayer escaped my lips, hoping that he wouldn’t remember the children I hoped were hiding under their beds. I made a mental note to keep an eye on him when he returned from smoking. The irony of it all struck me; amidst everything he did, he still adhered to my request to smoke outside, preserving the furniture’s scent. But my treacherous mind sought to minimize the monster within, attempting to find humor even in this darkness. As the warm red blood continued to pool around my leg, I began to feel faint.
Once again, I thought of happier times. One cannot fully understand this scene without contemplating how I ended up here. He hadn’t always been like this. There were moments of happiness, memories that lingered. I knew it was typical for people in my situation to say this, but he truly hadn’t always been like this. He used to be a stable, good man. However, everything changed when he lost his job after twenty years of service due to the shifting economy. That’s when he became a stranger, a shadow of his former self.
Looking back, I realized that was his black swan moment, when casual drinking escalated into alcoholism. I tried to offer help, but he dismissed my concerns, claiming that financial decisions were not a woman’s domain. His words grew sharper, his anger quick to rise, making it impossible to stay in his good graces for long. Fetching him a beer of the correct temperature was the only respite. But it was just words, I thought. I had always believed words could hurt, but I never anticipated this. One day, he hit me across the face because he thought I had been too friendly with one of his friends. I was stunned, and tears led me to our bedroom. He followed, consumed by regret and guilt. In that moment, I forgave him.
I convinced myself that he was not a bad person, that he had simply made a terrible mistake. He didn’t hit me for a while after that, but whenever he drank, the cutting words returned. I attributed his rage to the frustration of financial scarcity, and I even offered to get a job to support us. However, I never dared bring up the subject again after he told me that no woman would want him if he couldn’t provide. Then one day, he hit me so hard that two of my teeth fell out.
My worry shifted to the children. I had always wanted to leave, knowing it was impossible to raise happy children in such an environment. But he would never allow me to leave with them, and I couldn’t afford to go on my own. There was nowhere we could hide where he wouldn’t find us.
Finally, I heard his familiar snoring coming from the patio, a sign that he had passed out. Simultaneously, the sound of sirens reached my ears, signaling the arrival of the two police officers who always responded in our neighborhood. Panic set in; what if their knocks woke him? I attempted to get up, but my body failed me, and I lost consciousness.
I awoke from the deepest, most restful sleep I had experienced in a long time. Pain coursed through my body as I realized I was in a hospital, surrounded by faces that notably excluded him. My cousin, in her attempt to be calming, informed me that he had been charged with assault and child endangerment. The police didn’t even need me to press additional charges; their case was strong enough. Her husband had taken the children to their home, and they both offered to take me in once I was released.
I tuned out the rest of what she was saying. Tears streamed down my face as I grasped the enormity of what had transpired in a single night. These people, strangers and a cousin I had tried to distance myself from out of shame, had done what I couldn’t do for years. They had given my children a chance to be themselves, to live without fear. I realized that I had failed to save myself and my children. Overwhelmed, I turned away from my cousin and wrapped myself tightly in a blanket that smelled of bleach. I longed for the sleeping medication in my drip to transport me away once more. As the blessed opiates took effect, a loud clash resonated from a nearby room. I flinched and huddled even tighter, willing myself not to succumb to panic. Perhaps loud noises would forever frighten me.
As I faded back into the embrace of sleep, I made a solemn decision. For me to have a peaceful life, he could no longer be a part of it. Today, with bandages covering my body and drugs forcing me to rest, marked the last day I would see the man I had once loved. It was also the last day my children would see their father.
Read – The Commuter Chef – A Short Story by Muma Masombwe, Zambia
