One Night
I woke up alone in the cold, dark room. I got out of bed, slipped a robe around my sore shoulders, and opened the door to the bathroom. He wasn't in there, nor was he anywhere in our one bedroom apartment. Harold was never around in the mornings, but I always checked. I went back to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. I had wanted to wear my old grey shirt (it was a gift from my college roommate), but the bruises on my arms and neck were too offensive to the eyes. I went back to the bedroom, crossed over to the closet, and opened the door. I had a choice of a moth eaten scarf (to go with a long-sleeve shirt) or a turtle-neck. I pulled the turtle-neck over my head and continued to dress. While I went through my morning routine I thought of what I would do today. First, I would go to the office and collect my last check. Being a mailroom attendant in an office building was a meager living, but part of a life I was through with. I would miss the people in the office building, they had thrown me a farewell party, but I had to leave. Leave my job, home, and Harold, especially Harold.
I had big plans for today, for Harold, for me. After collecting my check I'd go to the gun shop in the warehouse district just a few blocks from where I had worked. I passed it every day, but never went in. Two weeks ago I did walk in. I had to. I had to make sure that when I left, Harold would not follow me. The man behind the counter was nice, understanding. I stayed for a long time filling out forms and giving him information about myself.
It was late when I got home that night. As I stepped through the door of our apartment, cigarette smoke assailed me. Harold was home, had been home, hadn't had dinner yet, and was propably drunk. I stepped over the threshold, closed the door, and prayed fervidly that he didn't hear me. I crept silently down the hall to the kitchen. As I stepped into the kitchen a beer bottle crashed into my back, between my shoulder blades. Though my memory of that night's events are dim, I remember the pain of the morning.
That night the man behind the counter had said the background check would be done in a few days and I could get my gun after that. It was small, could fire six bullets before you had to reload it, and seemed to suit me well. After I got my gun from the shop I'd go to the bank and get all my money. Since Harold and I were not married, I didn't have to worry that the bank would tell him of my actions. Then I'd go and buy me some suitcases, good ones that would last.
They would have to last, I didn't remember where my old roommate Elizabeth lived. But after today I'd have time to do as I please.
When I left the apartment the morning was grey and bleak. But the farther I walked away, the more beautiful the day became.
I went through my day as planed. The suitcase I bought were aligator skin. Expensive, but after so many years couldn't I have a little pleasure? Back at the apartment I packed away all my clothes, put money and assorted trinkets away, and sat at the kitchen table. The gun, loaded, with the safety off, was snug in my pocket. I hoped I wouldn't have long to wait for Harold.
I sat at the table thinking of the the years past. When I first met Harold, he was sweet, smart, and in control of his life. He was also lonesome. He had everything he wanted, everything except for someone to share his life with. Harold wanted me to be that person. So I said good-bye to my old roommate Elixabeth, and moved in with Harold. Elizabeth was worried, but I told her it would be o.k., Harold would take care of me.
That night , instead of taking me to his place, Harold took me to the airport, then to New York. A cousin of his was supposed to get him a job with the company he worked for. Everything was going great, Harold had his big job, we had the apartment, and I had my little job (so that I had a little extra money for myself).
Then Harold started drinking. He was fired from his well-paid job, and left unemployed. His drinking worsened, along with his treatment of me. I wanted to leave, but couldn't, I was too afraid. Harold had completly changed, now he was a monster. A hell hound bent on my destruction. If I left, he would find me. I had to do this, I couldn't leave him alive. Alive to find me, and bring me back to this torture, this hell.
I sat at the table, wishing that he'd come home so wasted that he'd go straight to bed. That way I could shoot him in his sleep. There would be no fight, and no problems.
The front door opened and closed. The steps I heard were heavy, but not dragging. Harold reached the doorway of the kitchen with a case of beer under his arm, and a bottle in his hand. I could tell by the way his shoulder slumped that the case was full.
"Where's dinner?"
"I didn't make any."
"Is this a joke?" he barked at me. "I work hard all day. I would like to have dinner when I come home."
It's real hard work chasing shots of Vodka one after another. He had been on unemployment for years, but I kept remarks to myself.
"Well get up and make dinner!" He shouted. When I didn't move, he threw his bottle at the space between my hands on the table top. The movement was so quick, I didn't have time to cover my face. Glass shards bit into my flesh, blood streamed down my face and mixed with alcohol. In a flash he was by my side. He picked me up, threw me to the ground, and continued to beat me. I was afraid that he'd notice the bulge that was my gun, but my bulky sweater made it unnoticeable. He grabbed my hair, yanked me up, and threw me against the stove. While I stood there yelping in pain, with tears streaming down my face, he went to the door way to get another beer. While he knelt to the case, I bent over to get some breath. As I stood over, I reached into my pocket, and pulled out the gun.
He stood before me with another bottle.
"Stand up straight." He commanded. As I stood I leveled the gun at his chest. He looked at me, laughed, and raised his beer to strike me. I pulled the trigger.
He didn't fall, or even stumble. So I fired again, and again. I continued until he lay on the floor in his own blood. Now he knew what it was like to be on that floor, with blood every where.
Unlike me, he would never get off the floor and crawl to bed.
My knees gave out, and I sank to the floor. I needed to get up, to get out. It was all over, but I couldn't. Finally a deep darkness washed over me, and I was grateful, for it held no pain.
When I woke up, I was not in the bedroom of the apartment that I always woke up in, but the room that I was in was vaguely familiar. I got out of bed and found myself dressed in comfortable jeans and a new grey shirt. I walked to one of the doors that lead out of the room and opened it. I stepped through the doorway into the bathroom and stood staring at the mirror. The face in the mirror image was untouched by time or scars. I stood there gaping, and wondering what happened.
Someone entered the bedroom, crossed over to the bathroom, and stood in the door way. She seemed very happy to see me.
"El, Elizabeth?" I stuttered.
"Jane, we need to talk. It's about Harold. Now, I know that you think that if you run off with him your life will be set. I know I'm just your roommate, but listen to me. He is not the guy for you. He's not even planning on marrying you. I can't explain it, but I know you will regret it if you decide to move in with him. In fact I think you would be better off if you just forgot about him."
I stood there thinking about the past few years with Harold. But they weren't years, it was all a dream.
"You know what?" I said, "I think you're right." And for the first time, in what seemed like years, I smiled.
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