Writing has been one of my passions since time immemorial, which helped fuel my fascination for the written word. Unfortunately, the skill lay dormant in my quest to achieve superiority over the bitch- Goddess named Success. But, now that I have a job that pays me a fat salary, its time to comfortably recline on my chair with a cup of coffee on an early Sunday morning and give the wings of words to my thoughts. In the midst of this philosophical deluge, my twisted mind decided to experiment with a more mature story. The one that might not be for the ‘popcorn’ lot. That’s what I think. I have tried my best to come up with something which might surprise people. Enough of the boring introduction, I present to you “The Escape”.
I opened the door with relief and anticipation. It had been a long day. It had been lasting, in some ways, for about 10 years. All I really wanted right then was to escape to his self-made sanctuary, shutting out the signs of the mundane world and relax, popping down a beer or two…or ten.
John was gone for the night. Though I loved my son, I was often glad for the respite that solitude gave me. Teenage boys can be a handful, after all. Yes, I knew that while John did have a lot of common sense, I also knew that often, as a parent, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Maybe it was just plain optimism; maybe it was simply trust. In any case, this night I was glad to just be alone.
Closing the door behind me, I entered the lobby and dropped my keys on the table in the hallway. It felt good to be home. Sanctuary? Yes, but that feeling was slipping away over the last two years since… my escape. Now, more and more, it seemed like my place… my domain.
God, had it been two years already? Yes, I told himself, it had, but it seemed like so much less than that. Maybe that’s because time, a wonderfully fickle thing, loved to play with your mind. How can hours or days pass seeming like only an instant, while the same period of time can plod along so slow, laborious? Yes, time was weird. It could rob you… if you let it.
The 18 years with my ex, Martha, were a blur, punctuated with blazing images. Some good. Most bad. There’s that weird tapestry of time again. Smears the memory. They say time heals. Did it? I guess so.
I fumbled in my shirt for a cigarette, walking into the living room. ”Gonna have to quit this someday” the little voice in my head chided, for the umpteen- thousandth time. As I approached the couch, I stopped suddenly. A cold ripple of ice slithered down the back of his neck. Little voice is speaking again, but this warning was much more eerie.
“What”? I thought.
Silence.
I stood there, frozen, trying to make out the words, but they weren’t there. I hadn’t really heard in words. It was more of a feeling. I listened, straining against the silence of the house that at times was deafening.
Did I hear something? What was the alarm that went off in my semi consciousness? I looked around the room, eyes and ears searching.
Same old secondhand furniture. TV in the same place, a week’s worth of newspapers stuffed behind the easy chair. The afternoon shadows stealing across the carpet, same as ever. Outside, I could hear the muffled drone of a lawn mower of my neighbour. Nope… nothing wrong here.
‘Jesus’, I said to himself, plopping into the couch. “I thought you were over that”. I should be, shouldn’t I? It’s been two years for Christ sake. Yeah… right… but maybe it takes longer than that to erase what you’ve been through.
“Damn”, I thought, as the smoke exhaled through his nostrils. “Get a hold of yourself”.
I had reason to be nervous though. My journey through the kaleidoscope of marriage with Martha had certainly taken its toll. It wasn’t just the alcoholism. Nor was it her lying, or her ruining me financially. It wasn’t even the countless episodes of screaming, fighting, (under the guise of “let’s talk”). Year after year I told myself, I would get through this… make it better. Get through somehow. Not even my son’s suspicions of abuse toward Martha were enough to make me give up. Of course, I told himself, good ol’ Dave, ever the optimist, had turned a blind eye.
The last three years were the worst. Paranoia and delusion had taken her over. I mused, once again, as I had so often back then, that if it were simply a matter of marital conflict… misunderstanding, or atoning for words or actions born of inconsideration, there might have been a chance. But how in God’s name can you respond… much less defend yourself… much less succeed… when there is no reality? When the demon sitting in front of you isn’t the real problem at all, but the demons that drove her mind?
No. You couldn’t. I had long since lost my self-respect. Sacrificing my family, my goals, my dreams, “for the good of the marriage”, I felt ashamed. But there was one thing he just could not, would not, sacrifice. And that she insisted on having… and devouring. They say that the basic animal instinct for self-survival is the strongest there is. Well, that certainly must be true. For in the end, it was that which enabled me to say, “No more”, and escape the clutches of the hell my life had become.
Not that it was easy. I knew that he was dealing with a brittle, unpredictable mind the first time she spit in my face. This was reconfirmed when this graduated to me hitting her. Bad as that was, I never felt truly afraid until the night I ’d had to wrestle the gun from her.
“The only way this marriage will end is in death”! She’d screamed.
I was overcome with fear then. Oh, yes, indeed. So much so, I didn’t dare ask whose death… hers, or mine, she meant. From that moment on, I ’d taken her very seriously. And for the first time, my life of depression and despair had become one of fear and terror.
But that had been two years ago. But she was safely locked up in prison. She wasn’t going anywhere, all comfy behind steel doors and drugged with God knows what.
“Geez, cool it, man”, I thought to himself. “You’re just tired, and on edge from a long week”. Still, something “pinged” in his mind. Something I could not quite put his finger on.
I snubbed the cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray and kicked off my shoes. Yes, everything is all right. You’ve got your life back. Things are coming together pretty damn good. I was laughing more, drinking less, had started to carve out a good life. Maybe even the really pretty female I saw at Wal-Mart would eventually give him a chance.
I smiled at that. Yeah, she was a head-turner all right. Something told me that we were bound to have a good time..
“Yes, maybe I could have a regular life again”, I sighed.
Just then my reverie was snapped shut with a cold metallic clang. The icy feel in the back of my neck returned. What the hell was going on?
Fumbling for the remote, I brought the TV to life, surfing the channels as I always did. Arsenal losing (again).Indo - Pak peace talks failed (again). Reality show altercations (again).. Then I stopped, with the local news. The anchorwoman was giving the late breaking story.
… “has escaped. Authorities are not giving details, but at least one person is dead and a massive manhunt is in progress”.
But it wasn’t those words which froze me where I sat. It wasn’t even the superimposed picture behind Ms. TV Anchor lady. It was that damned smell. The smell I had known only too well.
The TV sound faded away in my mind, but the smell lingered, making the superimposed picture on the TV cruelly more vivid. The picture of Martha, in one of her more hideous moments, when she’d been arrested. It was the smell. How many days/nights/years has that horrible aroma entered my nostrils? The smell of cheap gardenia perfume, which was the only stuff that woman would wear. If it had sickened me then, it positively revolted me now. Yes, it had been that smell, unnoticed, which had sent the silent alarm.
“Oh my God! It can’t be…!”
With great effort, I found my legs enough to stand. Slowly, agonizingly, afraid, yet afraid not too, I turned toward the kitchen. Life, like time, can be funny. Sometimes, when something is so impossible… so unlikely… that when actually confronted with it there’s no surprise. This was one of those times.
There she was. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Her dark eyes ablaze with a vacant, mad determination.
All the fear, the revulsion I had tried to the first live with, then suppress, engulfed me like a wave of hot dirty water from a ruptured sewer line.
“What… How”? I could only mumble a soft unbelieving whisper.
She made no response. She just stood there, framed in the doorway. She was like a snake, with cold unseeing eyes that knows it will soon dispense with its prey.
Slowly, deliberately, she raised her right hand, which held the gun. I was only dimly aware of it. My mind was reeling with a myriad of sights and sounds.
The neighbour’s lawnmower droning outside. The TV had moved on to advertisements. That god awful gardenia smell that would forever be associated with Martha.
And then I noticed, unwilling to see, the curl of her lip as she began a half-smile. Yellow teeth glared in the late afternoon shadows, and for a moment, I thought he could actually see blood dripping from her lips. God! Surely not!
I didn’t really hear the shots, either of them. My mind racing, feverishly, trying to comprehend. Nor did I feel it when his body was ruthlessly thrown back, knocking me to the floor, overturning the coffee table.
The sound around me faded. I looked down to my hands clutching my chest. They were filled with blood. My blood. This was the last thing I saw as my vision began to blur.
