Devil You Know(3)
Strangely enough, I want to live.
The front door slams, and I pause in my mad wiping long enough to discern the sound of his engine as it tears out the drive and down the street. Air seems lighter around me, and my shoulders don’t ache as much. I stare at that cloth in my hand. My nostrils flare, and I suppress the urge to scream at what that green, floral pattern represents.
Small clicks sound behind me, and alone at last, I do what I’ve wanted to since he got home from work; I fall to my knees, relieved. There’s no need to keep up my false bravado now that he’s gone.
“Hey, buddy.” I open my arms wide, and welcome my black Labrador into my hold. Even Rocco knows to be scarce when the asshole is home. He nuzzles his wide head into my side, and I cling on to him as if he’s my last hope for drawing my next breath. Everything about him: the smell of his doggy fur, the warmth of his breath, and the devotion he shows me somehow makes up for everything Dylan isn’t.
This is the sad irony of my life—my dog loves me with unwavering commitment, and my husband shits where he sleeps.
Isn’t life grand?
For the next few hours, I’m free. I’m able to eat what I want, how I want—as long as the dishes are done by the time Dylan gets home. I can watch what I want on TV—as long as I return the station to his favorite before I switch it off. Damn, I can have a beer—as long as I remember to place them on the shopping list for the next day.
Okay, so I’m not free. But in my life of strict routine and desperation to please, it’s the closest I’ll ever get. And as much as it saddens me, I realize I appreciate the fact Dylan has a wandering eye. After all, if he weren’t out fucking Deandra I’d never get this time to myself, this time to breathe. Time to feel like Jane again.
I relish it.
Every goddamn second.
ROCCO WHIMPERS, and promptly flees from the bed. The red LED on the alarm clock shows it’s a little after two in the morning. Right on schedule. If nothing else, at least Dylan is predictable.
Lights run in a mocking Mexican wave across the bedroom walls as his engine nears, then dies. You know that Pearl Jam song, “Better Man”? Yeah, well at times like this I swear the damn thing was written for me. I’m the girl who pretends she’s asleep. I’m the girl who stays for fear of nothing better.
The door slams into the entrance wall, and two thuds indicate his boots are now strewn somewhere in the general vicinity of our entranceway. A slam shakes the walls, and he bursts into a fit of giggles. “Can’t wake Sh-leeping Beauty,” he slurs, and bounces his way through to the bedroom.
Bounces, I say, because his shoulders damn near ricochet off every vertical surface in the house.
My stomach clenches, and a fine sheen of sweat breaks out behind my knees. Awake, asleep—it wouldn’t matter. He’ll do whatever he’s in the mood for either way. Some nights he comes home for round two, apparently unsatisfied with the amount Deandra could dish out. Other nights he berates me until I feel ready to vomit I’m suppressing my tears so hard. Tonight is the same as any other from my side; I’m simply hoping he’ll leave me the hell alone.
But that’s a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of event.
And given how black the bedroom is, the moon’s not out tonight.
He mutters under his breath as the click of the belt buckle, and the scrape of denim on skin leaves me set to hurl. My heart pounds in my ears, and for the briefest moment I panic that he may be able to hear it too. The anticipation of the act never eases over time. If anything, it increases. You’d think after all these years I’d be numb, accustomed to his habits. Well, what can I say—I’m still human.
Fear still finds me.
The bed dips under his weight, and the wave that rolls under me indicates he’s having trouble lying down without falling over in a drunken stupor. Awesome. I can’t hold back the violent shudder that rips through me as his cold hands connect with my shoulder. He chuckles to himself, and I still under his touch.
Seems Deandra wasn’t in top form tonight.
He runs his ragged fingers over my flesh, eliciting goose bumps where his touch trails. There’s no denying I’m awake now. Still, I don’t move. I’m past the point of being able to fake any interest in his venomous touch.
Strong fingers clamp over my side like a vice, and he wrenches me toward him so I’m lying on my back. The pungent aroma of bourbon stings my nostrils, and I push down a gag. That would only incite him to stick something else down my throat.
His lazy braille over my body continues, and I lie as still as I can. Heaven help he might mistake a flinch for interest. Sometimes I wonder if this kind of relationship is the exact thing that inspired someone to write ‘The Perfect Housewife Guide Book” in the fifties.