This Space for Rent

I get home late as usual. I hang up my keys and coat and scratch Parker, our chocolate lab, behind his left ear. His favorite spot. I check the food bowl to find it empty. “Hungry boy?.” His tail wags and his tongue slips lazily out of the corner of his mouth as saliva forms around his lips. I mix a concoction of gruel for my loyal companion, and once served I travel deeper into my home. Our home. 

Where is he this time? I wonder.

I climb the stairs to the bedroom. I don’t hear him. He must be out. Explains the empty bowl.

I change out of my uniform, spray it with Febreze and hang it to dry. Good enough.

I throw on a pair of lounge pants and make a cup of tea in the kitchen. I walk out to the porch and sit on the stone ledge. It’s damp and cold from the rain but still refreshing. This house feels like a vacuum. Air so thick I can’t breathe.

I glance down at the vibration in my pocket. “Mom Calling” the screen yells at me. I slide the bar up to ignore the call. Not nearly enough energy to play that game.

I shiver and decide it’s time to retire inside my black hole of a home. I sprawl on the couch and settle on a competitive reality show marathon. Parker comes to cuddle, grateful for the meal.

A few hours later I hear the jingle of keys, dropped at the doorway, picked up and dropped again. I hear a muffled curse and a rough unlock of the door.

Baby’s home.

He shuffles in, drops his key in the dish, peels his saturated hoodie off, and tosses it on a chair.

“Sup Baby?” he slurs as he saunters over. “How was work?”

“Fine” I reply.

“Just fine? C’mon Baby, tell me all about it.”

“I’m tired.” I interrupt as I get up to leave the room.

“Why so tired? Rough day? Got out late? Gotta be up early for work again?” He spits out each question, his voice tightening.

Almost there. A few more steps and I’ll be clear. Just get to the stairs, Sarah.

You can do it.

But I don’t. He grabs my arm as I walk by. You’d think after 10 years I wouldn’t underestimate his reach.

“Where you goin’ Sarah? Don’t you wanna spend some time with me? How about asking about my day? It was great! Thanks for asking! Jake and I went to this little park. We knocked these kids off their bikes. Little spoiled shits. They didn’t deserve the bikes. We threw the bikes in the river. It was awesome.” He was yelling now.

I pulled my arm away. “I’m tired Dylan. I’m going to bed.” I said quietly. Figuring he would quiet himself to hear me.

“Dammit Sarah! I just got home! What kind of wife are you? There’s no dinner! Laundry needs to be done! This place is a mess! You are just gunna go to bed?” He keeps yelling. Parker comes in barking, he makes the mistake of getting between us, trying to protect me.

Dylan kicks him away. I lose it.

“What kind of wife am I? The kind that goes to work to pay for this house! The kind that does the laundry! The kind that feeds the dog! The kind that cleans your dishes! I’m not even home to eat or cook! I work 14 hours a day so you can go out and play with your friends! You are 29 years old Dylan! What kind of husband are you?” I scream.

I watch the red glisten in his eyes. I know what’s next.

I bolt up the stairs. I get to landing before he grabs me from behind. I feel fire as his fist connects with my right cheekbone. I grab the railing for balance, but he’s much quicker, even when drunk. He grabs my arms and we struggle as we start to fall. Each step feels like a hammer, against my ribs, chest, back.

I curl up and wimper at the bottom of the stairs. He gets up and stands over me.

“Look what you made me do! You stupid spoiled bitch! You don’t deserve a piece like me! What kind of husband am I? Tell me you fucking whore! Say it!”

I feel the pain in my stomach. I feel the moisture as the blood trickles between my legs.

I look up at him. Dead in the eye.

Very calmly I say, “The kind of husband that just killed our baby.”

cute jab, by the way.

very classy.