Chapter 3 - call waiting.

“The safest road to hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.” - C. S. Lewis

The following day with lukewarm ambition I began to pry open my left eye to peer at my alarm clock's ominous red digits of which would undoubtedly disappoint. Rather than the expected glare of the demonic digits, there loomed my monster. Alex hovered with a heaving chest, labored breathing and saucer like eyes bearing tiny pins at their center protruding just beneath one lengthy furrowed brow. My cell phone clenched in his hairy ham hock fist with knuckles stark white. He seethed as his forehead beamed a scarlet red and his teeth produced a tenacious grind. -This wasn't going to be a good morning.-

A shaky nervous tremble resonated in his voice as he extended his fat hair laden fist blasting the phone toward my then vulnerable face, “What the fuck is this, Mira? Why are you sending emails to your partner after hours like this? I read three this morning. God knows how many you deleted. Is there something you aren't telling me here, because you guys seem awfully comfortable with this “honey” bullshit talk? You don't see me going around calling girls, “honey”. Since when did you start calling your partner “honey”. I can't fucking believe you are doing this to me!”

He then produced his highly anticipated series of whimpers and pathetic moans as he clenched his hair between his fingers and knelt groaning while expelling sobs like vomit on the floor. Off in the distance a random B rated actor turned in his grave, as manufactured tears streamed down Alex' fat ugly face. I had expected this charade, but not what came next.

As he carried on he stood to his feet with conviction bounding half way across the room with great momentum. As he began to pace in sporadic patterns across our berber rug, I laid back with my face toward the ceiling. With an exasperated sigh, I laid there praying it would end quickly. Silence may have been unwise, but seeing how worked up he was, I knew I could offer no acceptable reply. Remain quiet, hunker down till the tornado passes; hoping it would cease without taking its pound of flesh.

Moments later he pounced on me straddling my body with his thighs, pinned the arm I had craned overhead and then continued with his interrogation, “You going to answer me about this shit, or are we going to have a long day in this bedroom. Because let me tell you, you aren't going to work until you give me an answer about this, Mira. You think you are walking out that door without giving your husband an answer you are wrong! I will call you all fucking day, maybe show up at your office, swing my dick around a little. How about that? You wanna lose your job over this bullshit?”

-He had officially snapped his carrot. He must have known this was the end. Oddly, he didn't seem as pleased as I. Of course, he had no idea that it would not end as civilly as he imagined. The outcome would have made divorce seem inviting. Lucky for him I hear hell has a hovel where wife beaters like to go and wet their whistles.-

Suddenly, he began pounding my temple with the phone on the right side of my face, repeatedly slamming its flat surface against my skin until a shard of tiny glass shattered from its surface and careened toward my eye. Neatly nestling itself in the crease of my then tightly clasped eye, producing a sharp sting of pain and along with a steady surge of blood; minutes which seemed like hours passed before I was finally able to release the shard from its prickling grasp leaving behind a grisly mess in its wake; rendering my egyptian cotton sheets beyond hope.

As a swirling tempest of whooshes inundated my ears as he continued to violently thrust the phone toward my face, while shouting a nearly unintelligible plea, “Why?! Why?! Why?! Why, Mira?! Why do you have to make me do this? Every goddamned time! Why?! Why can't we just have peace in our house?! Why can't you just love me like I need?! Why?! Why?!”

Left with few options, I unleashed a side of me I had never met. With the force of what seemed like a thousand adrenaline junkies, I lifted my free arm and thrust his body forward as I wrenched my legs from his vise-like grasp. With limited visibility, blood now pooling near my eyes, I lurched my body toward him and overtook his stocky frame beneath my trembling knee. In a blind fit of rage I began plunging my fist toward the center of his repulsive face. My fist on auto pilot it continued to plummet toward the center of his face; as though my elbow was being operated by an invisible turn crank manned by one unrelenting psycho.

Blood spattered toward my face as I continued to strike my monster, steady streams flew as a few random droplets clung to my lower lip. Once I was certain he couldn't move -I had rendered him unconscious about five fist blasts ago- I pushed myself from his still body. Standing over him with my face inches from his, I studied the crimson orchid of serrated flesh that blossomed from the bridge of his nose. I ran my tongue along my lower lip clearing the droplets of his foul blood that settled on my skin.

-It was nice to see him bleed, for a change.-

With days that passed, I delighted in occasional fits of muffled laughter as images of his badly beaten face paraded through my mind. The following day, a shiny purple swirl of thickened blood quickly developed at the center of his face. It was a wonderfully grand hideous bruise...it matched the ugliness inside. Unrivaled bliss overflowed my heart as his futile attempts failed to mask its deep blackened hues with cover up. Was it wrong to find such joy in this? Had I become a bile spewing monster too?

He had to go...soon.

Because payback is a stone cold bitch, with a nine inch strap on.

Ok folks, here is the foreword of my book, "Dead Beats"... I will be posting additional chapters. As I have already mentioned -for those of you paying attention- I am 80 pages in and beginning chapter six... editing and revisions abound. I am sharing this for now, chapter one to follow shortly.comments are welcome, good, bad, ugly or indifferent.ciao ~b



Dead Beats
by: Bridgett Nicolace - Bird

"Honestly ma'am, this was the worst case of assault I have seen in ten years." ~Officer James Stys

Foreword.

Not a day went by I didn't feel the searing burn of regret permeate my senses, like a freshly hot iron pressed firmly against one pulsating exposed nerve. The sharp pangs of regret continued to resonate in the very depths of my shattered spirit; for every time my face had met the hard bone of his closed fist or when the heel of his foot abruptly slammed me head first to the floor. A regret that would leave a stark shadowy footprint in what seemed like an incurably broken heart.

I would regret not calling the police for every infraction against my well being and then ailing pride. I would regret having tolerated the intolerable behaviors, and having accepted an apology in lieu of forever dispelling his poisonous presence. Foolishly I remained for almost four years enduring the unacceptable behaviors of this small man; as I was continuously spoon fed his pitiful pleas to change.

I still regret he is a free. I regret that today he does not occupy a pen of steel bars, where he belongs. The humiliation and shame covered me like a thickly caked charcoal shawl...Until now.

Once upon a psychotic time, I desperately yearned that he be six feet under; solving the pesky divorce debacle. Thankfully, now on these pages I may craft the wonderful thoughts I could only embrace in my dreams. My wonderfully sordid daydreams filled with images of his body's rancid smatterings meeting its final destination against a rocky terrain or being violently thrust in an overzealous wood chipper. Obscure and rather troubling thoughts which I now bring to life, if only for a brief moment in the vivid world of my reader's imagination

The truth of the matter is, long after I have spun my tales of debauchery, I will continue to eagerly turn to the obituaries hoping to see his name. This cathartic finale would be a lasting antiseptic salve for my soul.

My story is developed under the veil of a fictional work. However, most of what happens to the main character along with the other characters - in terms of mental and physical abuse- is in fact truth. In many respects, these stories paint a picture of my past and writing this has granted me an indescribable measure of new found serenity.

This story is not written to garner a pitiful sense of empathy, but to turn something that was horrifying into something that is likely to entertain. Although, I don't care for labels nor did I ever personally care for the label of “victim”, I hope that if someone who wears this particular label -inconspicuously or otherwise- may read my book and endeavor to make change happen in their life. If this label is surreptitiously concealed in quiet despair, there can never be a change for the better. I know this all too well.

Speaking of “labels” or titles, I am proud of a few. I am a mother, a wife and a lawyer. The last being a title I am proud to have achieved but not a profession I choose to engage. This brings me to my final reason for writing my sordid little tale. Amongst my proudest accomplishments include raising my three sons -a work in progress-, finding and marrying my amazing husband and passing the bar exam...the first time. Although, not soon after I passed the bar exam, I discovered -rather quickly- how much I loathed the semantics of lawyering.

In fact, for the most part I find the entire profession to be rather dreadful. For reasons that most would expect to hear, including but not limited to the bureaucracy driven procedures which drive the mechanisms of “justice”.

With that said, I do not develop the main character of my book as a lawyer, but as a police officer. For two reasons, the first reason being police work is just cool, or at least I think so. What other job in the known universe are you able to carry a gun and chase around bad guys? Oh, and get free coffee? It's sheer unadulterated utopia, I tell you. Also, one paramount inspiration for my tale is Dexter, due in part for the ironic nature of how we love him so; however, while there are similarities my story has several distinctions. The main character murders only one particular kind of person – wife beaters- and they get what is justly deserved. Period.

Yet another distinguishing feature, is that all the fictional victims endure truths of my past. Everyone of my unfortunate fictional victims will abide tiny tid-bits of insanity that I had endured in my marriage.

Lastly, once I finally publish I would prefer not to put people to sleep with the minutia that is lawyering. Rest assured lawyering is far less glamorous than it appears on TV. As many of you know, it is far more likely to settle a case or arrange a plea bargain rather than go to trial. They say 'truth is stranger than fiction', but it can also be incredibly boring. Plus, lawyering shows on prime time make me want to throw up in my mouth. Why write a book about it? No thank you.

Admittedly, I think the foundation of our system sounds good in theory; the Constitution of the United States of America. -While, I am not looking to spark a heated debate about a person's political views or the like.- However, I think many of us can agree for instance, that at times doctrines which are designed to keep important evidence out of the courtroom, at times allows persons who by all accounts should be behind bars are free to roam the streets.

Many procedural safeguards that are designed to protect our people allow for what most of us would call a miscarriage of justice. Bearing this in mind, what is best? To establish no precedence or guideline? Understandably, this is not the answer. It is as many of us say and most of us believe, our freedom is not free. In other words, to afford protection to all, the price is that some may walk free when clearly they should not.

When you are sworn in to practice law, they proudly proclaim at your swearing in that you will always be a lawyer. Something no one can ever take from you; as if it is an unconditional brand on your hide. If that is true, as an officer of the court I am perpetually bound to uphold the U.S. Constitution and to respect the laws of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. But deep within the murky depths of my mind, visions of cruel vengeance dance in my head; for all whom justice was once ill served.

Ask yourself the question, is it really enough punishment for these horrifying “human beings” to live amongst us in shame? Or do they deserve more?

It is hard for the mind to wander aimlessly into a maelstrom of conceivable tragedy. A loved one falling victim to the clutches of a predator, rapist, abuser or otherwise. As mothers we consume ourselves daily with worry about a simple fall down the stairs or the like; never mind a life altering tragedy. I would like to believe I would allow our system to dole out justice should the unthinkable occur. Men or women who strike their spouse are predators as well, they merely have a different prey.

Understandably, I have a passionate distaste for wife beaters or abusers of any kind. While I do not condone murder, something about it seems to intrigue the human brain. So I don't feel alone in my fascination with this morbid side of humanity. It has fascinated me since I was a little girl. -Beaming with pride- just name a serial killer, I can tell you all about em'.

I am certain this makes me odd, and for those who know me seem to embrace the quality, so for now.... I will keep it just the same. I have always marched to the beat of my own drum, and for that I will never solely practice law; mindlessly marching to our judicial system's staccato beat. My story brings you into my macabre daydream of murder and vigilante justice.

Payback sure is a fucking bitch. Enjoy.