Chapter 4 - consortium of characters

Hello! I know it's been two weeks. Sorry. been busy busy. But busy writing on top of butt wiping and other assorted motherly duties. So here is chapter four -part of it-. In this chapter I introduce two characters, ok maybe more than two. -two bad guys, ok?-. In this excerpt I introduce Frank Olivieri... next will be Ron Steenley. They are a suckish collection of dudes.

Also, it should be noted that I am amending the title of my book to: "Dead Beats. the beginning." Turns out I need to write more than one book to include everything I have to say. There's a lot of disturbing/humorous plots prancing through my twisted little mind. So I will be sticking around for a while. ::sigh:: y'all are just gonna love me!!

As usual, comments, praise random showers of unabated flattery are always welcome. : ) Hope everyone is enjoying the lovely fall weather we are having. Looking forward to more pumpkin carving, scary movies and Halloween! ciao be well, ~b

Chapter 4...a consortium of characters.

“I’m tired of you sayin’ I should be prayin’.
I know it’s me against the world, I’ve been turned out.
Been thrown down to the killing floor.

Some people say I need to pray, Feels like it’s me against the world. I’ve been turned out. Been thrown down
to the killing floor, Down to the killing floor.”- Lyrics from “Killing Floor” by: Black Stone Cherry.

After my rather unexpected furious face smashing foray, with the crazy adequately amped up, I was somehow able to numb myself to my otherwise panic riddled state; like an emotional barometer I had finely honed. With time, I mastered the technique of numbing myself to his prattling presence and pitiful pleas to work on our marriage; what a joke. But with my distance finally becoming apparent, his crazy was off the charts. I was surprised he hadn't noticed my distance till now. Truth is, this man was so self absorbed I am surprised he hadn't been engorged with his own shit via osmosis. A girl can dream. In fact, it's amazing he noticed anything but for the mirror he constantly stood before, admiring himself.

The following morning in the wake of my unbridled rage, with its dust still clinging to the air, I was met by Alex stewing with rage at our kitchen table. The air was heavy, like walking into a vat of pudding.

With a wavering intonation in his voice he pulled a seat out and begged me to sit and talk, “Please come sit next to me so we can try and talk about this, Mira? Please. I don't want to go through the day like this.”

I turned my back to him and opened the fridge looking for the gallon of milk. -fuck balls, all out of milk...I will have to stop at Nancy's market on the way to work. Milk does the body good.- Coincidentally, I was more concerned about the milk than anything he had to say. Immediately he noticed my indifference and began pounding his fist on the table, demanding we talk. A rapid progression of wood wallops were intently designed to capture my attention. I had no desire to engage him now or otherwise.

Swiftly exiting the kitchen I went to grab my backpack from the hall closet, but the door was abruptly obstructed by one tear streaked monster. He stood before me and poked me in the center of my chest, needling me with his sausage like digit.

With his face squarely placed in mine, suddenly his tears had miraculously dried and were replaced with one familiar snarling sneer as he began berating with his deep growl like tone, “You aren't getting my fucking house, you bitch! You aren't fucking getting it, so don't even think about it! You and your kids better start packing up your fucking shit, you asshole! How are you going to stop the financial bleeding around here if you leave? I will go down with this ship and so will you! If you think I am leaving, you are mistaken, bitch! Because I will just keep coming back and plant myself right in your goddamned living room! You will get no peace! None!”

There was nothing I had to say to him, not a word. With a forceful thrust, I pushed him away turning my body from his; then turned my face into my hands and covered my eyes. I intimated sobbing sounds with a side of violent shoulder shrugging. In an attempt to console me, he approached placing his hand on me. Before another foul word was uttered from his heinous lips, I turned around and shoved him square in the chest and sent him sailing about three feet back.

Continuously shoving him till his back was flush with the adjacent wall, then politely reminded him, “Stay the fuck away from me. Stay the fuck away from me and my kids. Leave me the fuck alone and everyone will be fine. Let it go and stay out of my way.”

I was all done. That morning, in my living room, my monster's jarring frame jolted as I stared into the whites of his shocked eyes, then widened with disbelief and awe. I delighted in the seeming helplessness exuding from his every pore. He wasn't fighting back, surely this was a limited time offer. It was indeed time to get the fuck out of dodge. It was as though the tables had turned, but I wasn't interested in learning what was on the other side. With haste I made my way to grab my backpack and practically galloped out my front door.

Clenching my bag in my angry throbbing fist, I made my way to Nancy's market for my morning dose of cool calcium goodness. It was a morning ritual that could not be bypassed no matter what pressing matters loomed; a vice of mine that was not so bad after all. The madness of mind consuming murder, perhaps not such a positive one.

Typically on my morning walks I would ponder the details of Alex's murder, thinking on every detail. At times pangs of guilt stung my conscience. I continuously convinced myself that killing him was the best way. Mini pep talks would infiltrate my mind. This was the best way, the best way for things to go. The only way. If I let him go, I would unleash him. I would set my monster free to track down new prey. I would certainly read about some poor woman left for dead and badly beaten... and one missing Alex. Surely, I was doing the right thing. The only thing that could be done. There was no other way.

Turning the corner of one fractured decrepit street corner, I navigated it with distinct movements to avoid one fractured ankle. An abrupt right turn led me through the badly cracked front door of Nancy's store. Duct tape and ribbons of silvery tape constructed an awkward maze on the lower half of her door. Hmmmm...this was a new development.

Concerned with the presence of Nancy's newly acquired duct taped decoration I asked one brightly beaming Nancy, “What's with the door Nancy? Did you have a problem here or something?”

With an ear to ear grin monopolizing her portly face she responded with a hint of levity and laughter in her voice, “No no, Ms. Mira, nothing like that. There was just an accident with the cola vendor last week. His cart hit the door and made a big crack. We have to wait on the insurance people now to fix it.”

She carried on as her rotund frame jostled and exclaimed through her animated laughter, ”Ha ha, just my luck! Hey, How are you?! I haven't seen you in a while! Want a cup of tea? You should stay and have a chat with me. Gets lonely around here sometimes, you know? Hey, why is your face so red? Did you run here or something? Haha!”

Nancy Privetti, a wonderful blessed soul of a woman, the same face I had greeted at that very store for the past thirty memorable years of my young life. As I stood there listening to her, I thought how unusual it was that just moments prior I was consumed with my killing plans. Having just received an unanticipated invite for tea and scones, I found it oddly amusing. Did she see murder in my eyes? Because I could feel it consuming me. Or was I the same doe-eyed kid that bought a pack of nerds from her with a half a nickel less than retail cost? She would smile, send me on my way and tell me 'It's ok, I'll put it on your tab'. Of course she didn't see what I was thinking or feeling for that matter?

With an exhausted sigh of relief clinging to my words I replied, “No, Ms. Privetti I'm sorry I really got to run. You know lots of police work to do today, as usual. I'm glad to know that everything is ok and no bad guys are giving you a hard time. Maybe another time, I will come by and have some tea with you. Maybe a nice quiet Sunday morning.”

With a subtle hint of disappointment she replied, “Yes dear of course, I understand. You keep the city safe for us now.”

I nodded and turned down an aisle toward the milk cooler with chips, corn nuts and slim jims surrounding me as I made my way. As I walked down the aisle I noticed a man standing in front of the beer cooler with his young daughter -about eight years old if I had to guess-. An awkward looking girl wearing clothes, that by the looks of it, she seemed to have outgrown long ago. She wore filthy shoes with laces that were untied and covered in thick streaks of mud. Her fiery red hair looked as though it hadn't been brushed with gnarly bangs dangling across her milky white skin. Right before I was able to snatch up my morning milk, I couldn't believe what I saw next.

Out of my peripheral vision I caught the quick motion of her father's hand grabbing her arm as he lifted the left side of her body six inches from the floor by the apex of her elbow.

He looked her in the eyes as she whimpered in pain, and growled in an attempted hushed whisper, “If you fucking ask me again I am going to beat the piss out of you when we get home. Do you understand me? Every time we come to the store I can't buy you something. I told you that before.”

I am uncertain what demon crawled up out of my ass that day and made me do what I did next but it happened. It just happened. As my heart was pounding, my blood seemed to run cold into the very epicenter of my heart as a seething anger enraptured every fiber of my being. I walked up close behind him grabbing his right arm at the base of his wrist. I drew in close enough so no one but he and I knew there was now a Glock .40 neatly pressed against the base of his spine.

He had in his right hand a twelve pack of Natural Ice that was released from his grip and fell abruptly to the floor once my gun was wedged just above his Fruit of the Looms. Nancy called out when she heard the commotion, asked if everything was 'ok'. I assured her that I had just dropped something...no worries I had it.

He stammered nervously when he asked, “What the hell are you doing lady? What are you out of your mind?”

In a calm restrain, as calm and collected as I could muster I whispered in his ear, “Shut your lousy mouth. You aren't going to make a sound. Not a fucking sound. Nod your head if you understand me.”

Trying to turn his head to see me out of the corner of his eye he rapidly nodded with his big pumpkin head.

As I continued with my instructions, “Right now I have a Glock .40 pressed up against your spine. If you piss me off once you will be looking at your guts falling out of your zipper. What is your daughter's name?”

He was quiet for a few moments, hesitant to answer but then stammered a barely coherent sentence as he whimpered out his answer, “Nora. Nora Joy I call her.”

Strange. How could she have joy with a father like this? I looked down at the little girl, she had no clue what was going on. That's how I wanted to keep things. No need to upset the poor thing anymore than her father already had. Dickhead.

She looked up at me and asked a series of random questions with a heartwarming overtone of innocence, “Are you my daddy's friend? Daddy says if I am good today I can watch Disney channel before bed. Do you like Disney channel? I have an apple for snack time at school. I love apples.”

I smiled as I informed her of our plans for the morning, plans that didn't involve tea sipping, “Yes hunny, I am your daddy's friend. We are going to make a fun trip back to your place so you can watch Disney and play with your dolls. Do you have dolls?”

She looked up at me with glimmering eyes and nodded, “Yes I have lots of dollies, can you play with me?”

I answered her, “No I am sorry sweetheart, I have to talk to your daddy about a few things then I have to go to work.”

Looking away from Nora, I pressed the barrel of my gun until its front sight was nestled deep inside the fleshy nest of fat overflowing his pants.

With my attempt at unwavering unequivocal command, I whispered in his ear, “Now you are taking me to your place, and you aren't going to make a goddamned peep but for your home address. If you run or make one false move I will shoot you dead right were you fucking stand. Nod your head if you understand me.”

He nodded his head and as he continued to walk a few paces before me, we began our journey to the dungheap he called an apartment. Along the way, I looked down at Nora who walked beside me. She was a sweet looking little girl, she walked beside me giggling to herself -she seemed delighted with the notion of company-. Swinging her arms as she began to skip along, her undersized shirt swung back to reveal a path of thick bruises along her tiny forearm. Instantly, I became enraptured with rage.

Once inside the stank filled hovel, I knelt down and held little Nora's hand and asked her to go to her room while her daddy and I talked. She smiled and walked down the hall to her room, only to return later... begging me to play.

He sat in his recliner that he had clearly coveted since it had been purchased circa 1974. He looked up at me and asked with a tone of hesitation in his voice, “So what the fuck is this all about? Have you lost your mind lady? Your a goddamned cop? I could turn you in for this shit!”

I quickly drew my weapon and pressed it against his right temple holding it hard and steady against the right crease of his eye, causing him to recoil in his fleabag chair and plead, “Stop, ok Stop, I just want to know what is going on!”

I stood back and studied him, taking a moment just to take in the sloth-like pitiful appearance of Frank Olivieri. The man looked like a rat, with a large pointy nose, thin legs and arms with a bulging distended belly; along with the nasty smell and hygiene to match.

Crouching down and placing my hands along the wooden arms of his chair, I placed my face near his and said, “You are going to answer my questions, only the questions I ask. Nothing more. I am not here to have story time and I don't give a shit about you. I am here because of that little girl and because of what I saw you doing to her in that store. We are going to get down to business, and it starts now. Do you understand?”

He nodded his head as he continued to recoil in his filthy seat. He was good at the head nodding routine.

As I stood upright I effected a deliberate tone in my voice as I began with my questions, “Let's start with what's your name, shall we?”

He answered, “Frank, Frank Olivieri.”

I replied, “How long have you been hitting your daughter and leaving those marks I saw on her little arm?”

He raised his eyebrows and with a tone of dissension in his voice he replied, “I don't know what marks you are talking about lady. Nora is a clumsy girl, she falls a lot.”

I withdrew my weapon and placed it snugly just beneath the bulging spot in the crotch of his jeans; with the barrel of my gun neatly nestled against his denim covered scrotum I continued to prod him, “Don't make me pull the trigger and cut the bullshit. I told you, this isn't happy time. I saw what you did and I heard you tell her you were going to beat her. You aren't fooling me, so spill it.”

In an attempt to remove his nuts from the barrel of the gun he leaned back too far causing the chair to flip backward. Quickly I pulled him up from the floor by his left arm -just as he had done to Nora-, and threw him onto the couch. I didn't have time for this, fuck that chair.

Nora's sweet voice chimed into the living room from down the hall, “Is everything ok daddy?”

I replied, “Yes, Nora just stay in your room for a little bit. We are almost done talking. The chair just fell back by accident.”

Nora replied, “Ok, that's ok. I will stay here.”

Squatting directly in front of Frank with my weapon leaning against my left knee pointing squarely at his loathsome face, I resumed my questions, “Ok Frank, back to square one. You ready?”

With a whimper and a crackle resonating in his pathetic voice he replied, “Yes. Yes I am ready. Sorry it won't happen anymore.”

I replied, “So answer the question, when did you start hitting your daughter?”

With a look of desperation on his face he replied while fighting back tears, “I don't know, sometimes I lose my temper I know I shouldn't. I am real sorry lady, listen I will go to counseling if that's what you want. Don't torture me lady. I am just trying to take care of my little girl you know, it's tough being a single father.”

With conviction I pounced to my feet and growled my reply into the center of his face as a loomed over him and his then shivering frame, “I already told you I don't care about you. Don't piss me off, Frank.”

He stammered with a quivering lip as he replied, “Yes, ok. I know I know. I'm sorry.”

As I stood back I noticed the saturated denim where Frank had just pissed himself, just beneath his bad ass skull and crossbones belt buckle. Talk about irony, and he thought he was going to "beat the piss" out of someone today. Good, I was glad I scared him... But I was becoming exhausted already with this guy, plus I didn't want to be late for work.

I continued, “Frank, how are you supporting your daughter?”

He answered, “I get disability and workman's comp for now.”

I replied, “Is that it?”

He answers, “No I get Social Security disability income for Nora because she has autism.”

With disgust and despise now dominating the inflection of my voice I replied, “What the hell, you are beating your autistic daughter? Man, you really are one sick puppy aren't you.”

He just stared at me with his pitiful eyes as he sat there in his piss soaked pants. I wanted to beat him within the inch of his life as he slouched back on his Brady Bunch looking couch, but I wouldn't do that to Nora. That wouldn't be right. I brushed off that fleeting desire and propped upright the hideous chair that had been pushed back onto the floor.

Now sitting squarely facing Frank, taking in the musty smell of his pea green chair as it pervaded my nose, I continued, “Do you have someone you know that can take care of Nora. Someone other than you? Someone you trust?”

He sat up with a look of relief in his eyes, wearing the expression of condemned man that had discovered a probable means of escape as he replied with a heavy tone of alleviation, “Yes ma'am, my mother, Edna Olivieri, she lives in South Boston. She's real good with Nora. I'd trust her anyday.”

Tiny footsteps pattered down the wooden floor of Frank's hallway, and around the corner peered tiny green almond shaped eyes covered by wisps of scarlet red hair. I looked away from Frank and saw Nora giggling in her cupped hands with a Barbie doll at her feet. The poor thing was dying to talk to me so I called her over. She bounded across the room with barbie in hand. Without hesitation she proudly propped herself on my lap, with her boney bottom digging into my left knee she looked up and smiled at me with her extended hand offering me her half naked barbie doll. When I looked down at her hand that was clasping the doll by its hair, it was then I noticed it. A deep welt in the shape of a skull in the center of her hand. Just like the one on daddy's belt buckle. That dirty rotten son of a bitch.

As I grabbed her hand and studied the imprint I asked her, “Who did this, Nora? How did this happen?”

Nora pulled her hand out of mine as she coyly replied, “I don't want to talk about that. Can we just play dolls?”

I held Nora's fragile hand in mine and said, “It's ok Nora, you need to tell me, daddy said it was ok.”

Nora glanced at her father and said, “Is that true daddy? Is that ok?”

He sat stoic with a look of disgust in his eyes glaring at me, and then answered his daughter, “Yes, you can tell her Nora. It's ok.”

Nora looked up at me and in a matter of fact like tone she replied, “My daddy gets mad at me sometimes and yesterday I snuck a can of soda into my room after bedtime. Well, he caught me with it and I had to get spanked with his belt. Sometimes I do bad things and sometimes my daddy has to spank me. It's ok though, I still love my daddy. I just have to stop doing bad stuff, that's all.”

After she shared this horrifying story, she looked up at me with her carefree demeanor and again insisted upon playtime. My heart melted, I felt like taking her from him that day. I had thought about reporting this, but he had to surrender his parental rights to someone who cared. Someone who knew Nora, like her grandmother. I didn't want her to get lost in the system, it was just a bad place to be. He needed to hand her over to Edna.

Later, I did my homework on Edna, no record, a well respected widow in the community, retired, and would love the daily companionship of someone as lovely as little Nora. That's where she had to be, and it was going to happen...otherwise Frank my have an unfortunate accident. Hell, that may happen anyhow.

Disgusted with what I had just heard, I looked over at a now sobbing Frank and told Nora that she had to go back to her room for a little while so her daddy and me could finish talking. After she smiled at me and nodded she hopped up and ran down the hall to her room. She seemed like such a well mannered child, I couldn't wrap my head around why he would do such horrible things to an innocent child. Honestly, I just knew something had to be done and what was best for her wasn't here. I loathed this giant sack of shit sitting before me and it would have done me no greater pleasure than to extinguish whatever shred of humanity that clung to his meager soul.

As Frank sat before me sobbing into the palm of his right hand while covering his eyes, I told him, “Here is what you are going to do Frank. I am going to make myself clear. I am going to come back here and check in, in one month. You are going to get yourself a lawyer. I don't give a shit how you do it, just do it. You are going to draw up papers to surrender your parental rights to your mother. I will check back, and you won't be able to hide. So don't try to. If I come back and find out she is still here and nothing has been done or your not at least working on it, you will regret it. I will find out, so don't try to be slick. I will hunt you down and put a bullet right between your eyes. Oh, and don't get cute and try to report me, I'm a well respected cop, you're nothing but a piece of shit. They will never believe you. Now Frank, don't make me come back here and launch a bullet straight through your nutsack.”

I stood to my feet and as I marched out the front door, the sound of loud dramatic sobs and whimpers trailed off in the distance as I made my way further down the chilly halls of the seedy apartment building. Off to work, with a pep in my step. The corners of my lips and eyes felt as though they were pinned against my face, tightly curled upward, as I grinned all the way to work. I even laughed to myself as the train jostled my body against the steel beam to which I clung. That just made my day, Thanks Frank.

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.

Chapter 2

Here's my second chapter, not the most exciting chapter, but necessary to lay the foundation of my main characters. So it's a must read for all who are looking forward to the "finished product". Ahemmmm, don't get me wrong....it's still a good read. ::wink wink:: Many of the chapters are written, but I keep going back and reworking.

Deleting....adding....editing, yucky yuck yuck! Editing sucks, straight up suckage. But the truth is, the first draft always sucks. Hell, the second draft sucks. So I keep going till I think it is close to acceptable. There will surely be change in the final outcome....

I should also take this moment to mention that -for those of you paying attention- that I don't intend to share all chapters in their entirety. What's the fun in that?? Of course, as usual, comments, sharing, following is gladly welcomed. [also, it should be noted that insertion points or tabs are impossible on blogger....so they are in my book but not on my blog. I'm sure that none of you really care, but thought I would point it out. It's a writing thing/hangup.]

Chapter 2....work. A well ordered madness.

“It was a hot afternoon and I can still remember the smell of honeysuckle all along the street. How can I have known that murder can sometimes smell like honeysuckle?” - Billy Wilder

Hunched over a dull pain seeped through my ligaments and joints. That morning movements with gentle refrain kept those dull aches from striking sharply and jolting what little nerves remained. I crouched desperately jerking frayed shoestrings through eyelets of my boot, -Fingers nervously trembling, I could barely master a simple task.- Tightening strings into a zig zagged constricting noose of sorts, my toes grew cold from lack blood. Undoubtedly, brewing in the foreground were colossal “tales of martyrdom”. I scrambled to avoid another physical attack or unwelcome assault on my ears.

Jesus Christ stop shaking – just let me stop shaking... I need to get the fuck out of here, away from him...

I moved swiftly, the soles of my feet numb and tingling, makeup half assed, I was in a secret race, to the finish line that was my front door. I knew the few moments I had were rapidly dissipating before he resurfaced. As I clenched my foot into one rugged leather boot an intoxicating earthy smell of leather wafted toward my face; my senses reeled with a strange combination of anxiety and excitement.

-I was winning my secret race. His keyboard clicking...adequately distracted. Almost there.-

With a marked sense of urgency and heart pounding so hard I could feel blood pulsing in the tips of my fingers and the temples of my head, I made it to the street. -Victory you are mine! Canned applause and laughter echoes in my head-

A dreaded hail from my front door, his desperate shrill voice went through me like teeth dragging through cotton pile, “Mira, wait I want to talk to you more! Mira, what the fuck? You are just going to go to work like this? Can't we talk?”

I didn't answer, I hastened my footsteps praying I wasn't chased down by a madman in a housecoat. No fucking thanks, dickhead... I'd rather eat a steaming pile of shit.

I never turned around, I was certain he retreated to his trusty email bunker. Where the allure of electronic dissension called his name. Rest assured a nasty email would populate my inbox with due haste. -Delete.-

My boots pounded on the sidewalk which resulted in an army of pins and needles infiltrating my feet to the brim of my boots. The warm glow of the sun emanated a balmy hue in the wake of an early morning shower. The tangerine sun cut across the horizon melting on the streets like a smooth orange butter funneling through its cracks and corners. An occasional cool fall breeze rushed through my thin cotton shirt; despite the warmth of the sun, the bracing cool would quickly remind you of where you were. -Time for that fall jacket, which I had put off until that day-

New England lends itself to a unique climate, with some beautiful landscape to admire. Yet the intermittent cool breeze alluded to an anticipated transformation, a bittersweet yet welcomed change. When a kaleidoscopic canvas of foliage envelopes the trees -Change can be a good thing – That morning, I took in the refreshing fall air as it swept over my face, feeling the sting of it bite my lungs. With the warmth of the sun on my face, I tried to embrace the day with renewed hope.

Though hope is a sentiment that is hard to embrace under these circumstances, I had to force horrible images from my mind and focus on my workday ahead. Some unfortunate folks of the working world live amongst the monotonous hum of cubicle hell five days a week. I was lucky to find work I that doesn't suck you into a vortex of endless emails and useless meetings. I am a police officer for the city of Boston, Massachusetts. Among my myriad of titles, Police Officer Mira Chiatti is one of my proudest; mommy being at the top of my list. Wife soon to be scratched off. Thank fucking God.

In Boston, there is just enough grit to make it interesting but not too much slum to make it unbearable. Well, at least I thought so and even though crime was on the rise. A tad bit naïve, yes... I still wore the horn-rimmed rose tinted glasses. I still saw the city where I grew up. Unfortunately, my job required interaction with scumbags more often than not. But then there were always good people, thank God for good people. Life would be a lot harder if there were a scant supply of these folk.

I took the good with the bad, and if I could help one person a day, then I felt alright at the end of the day; dispelling the poison in intermittent doses. Like one unrelenting liver after a weekend bender. Honestly, work helped me forget the bullshit going on at home. It's cliché but it worked, so I didn't fix it.

We lived on the North End of Boston, reminiscent of our hailed European roots, a mosaic of cobblestones and brick buildings loom over the narrow streets. Brick buildings that have the stature of a feeble woman, seemingly eager to topple on the random passerby. If you were to stand close enough, you could swear they'd whisper an endearing tale in your ear. The streets were steeped in history that felt familiar and safe. Since my childhood, corner stores were run by the same familiar faces who would greet you by name. Waiters in your favorite restaurant remembered the wine you preferred with your marsala. All these blessed traits served as a reminder that you were, in fact, home.

My morning routine was a walk to Quincy Market where outdoor vendors sold coffee and pastry treats. James was my favorite vendor, and he made one mean cup of joe.

Along with James' charming Irish brogue, he always served up the most welcomed compliments any woman could appreciate. Mark Twain once said that he could live for two weeks on a good compliment. As it happens, if compliments had caloric value, James would have rendered me a rather large woman by now. For that wonderful trait I adored him, he was an older man in his seventies - if I had to guess-. The hard lines on his face told the story of a hard life. If you had time to lend an ear, he would eagerly share a story or two about his wife, Elise, or the grandkids armed with a wallet chock-full of pictures; he was a delightful little pit stop every morning.

After my brief interlude in fairy tale land, population James and I, I would make my way to “the T”. It was there I would catch a train that eventually dumped me onto Tremont Street. The day would start with a morning debriefing with Captain Jack Brewster. Everyday at 0800 hours Captain Brewster held a meeting at police headquarters. As expected, the meeting would consist of what had occurred the night prior and any ongoing issues of concern.

Generally speaking the Captain would have my undivided attention. However, on this day I found myself struggling to focus on anything but the pulsating pain now infiltrating my face. A daunting heavy pain filled my head. It felt like a mixture of hangover and sinus pressure. Although, I am nearly certain it was facial swelling due to being smashed in the face.

Unfortunately these days, more often than not, my random daydreams of freedom would interrupt an otherwise perfect work week. Today I arrived as usual, on time, my uniform neatly pressed, hair tightly coiffed in a bun. The only additional contribution, one muffled complexion with heaps of makeup and powder; add in a few ibuprofen for good measure.

Officer Jason Maldonado, my partner, sat in a chair with an attached desk welded to its legs, his body overwhelming its frame; his bulky thighs spilling from its sides. He sat squarely facing the podium in the center of the room. He looked up and shot me that flirty smile he perfected after years of seasoned practice. -He looked good today, very good in fact, of course there weren't many days he looked bad. Actually there were none at all.- I made my way over to to the seat next to Jay and sat waiting for his daily social updates before the Captain showed up.

Jason quipped, “Mira, hey you ready for another day in paradise?”I answered him with as much enthusiasm I could muster, “Yes, as always, of course.”I thought to myself, Just let me look at you, you don't have to talk much - in fact, don't talk at all, please. That day I was just in need of some goodies for my ailing spirit, not a lot of chit chat. Oddly he always seemed to chat more than I had.

Jason is that protein drinking meathead type you see at your neighborhood gym. But had the most inviting pillowy pecks, with hearty biceps of yumminess. Admittedly, he made me shamelessly drool. But sadly, beneath the shiny surface is one dopey Italian. You just had to love him and his jovial demeanor, or at least I did. Honestly, I just loved to look at him.

Jay has a wonderful glow of Sicilian olive toned skin, a wide nubian-like nose and thick back hair, perfectly cut to match the lines of his face. His eyes, a deep brown, and a hard jawline gave him that “appeal” most men dearly covet. Clearly, good genetics were in this man's corner. Although I was wildly attracted to him -as most women were-, I never revealed even a scintilla of interest. Per usual, I did as my father taught me -you never shit where you eat-.

Work was priority, not some scandalous affair that I would have loved to entertain, but my better judgment got the best of me. Rats...Life was far too complicated to put that in the mix.

Then I noticed Jay studying my face as he leaned toward me brushing back a wispy crop of bangs that dangled over the left side of my face and said, “What the fuck happened to your face?”

I quickly replied that I had tripped on the steps leading to my house and simply couldn't block my fall quick enough. - Note to self: buy more cover up.- Neither he nor anyone else at work knew of my problems at home. It was better that way. Especially now, with what I have planned.

Jason replied with a certain sense of levity along with a subtle hue and intimation of concern, “Oh shit, you gotta be careful. You need to keep that face lookin' pretty.”

I tried to keep it light and replied, “Ya ya ya, I know. I tried putting a bunch of cover up on it, but nothing gets by you. You are just sharp as a tack there buddy.”

Jay then started in with his morning “stories” before our daily meeting, “So remember that girl, Robyn, I told you about?”

I answered, “Yeah.”

He continued, “Well, I was out with her last night and I swear to God this girl would not stop talking about her damn cats. It was a little freaky. It went from her cats to her grandmother and then to her nieces. I spent two hours looking at pictures on her iphone. It was ridiculous! Seriously, this girl had one smoking hot tight little package but I don't see myself calling her again. She already texted me like three times since I dropped her off last night. Maybe I should just tell her? Or you know, she should get the hint, right? I mean if I just don't call her back? Right?”

I replied, “You know, I don't know, sometimes honesty is the best policy but sometimes it can bring the psycho out of the best of em'. You know?”

With a perplexed look on his pudgy face he nodded in acknowledgment, all while sorting it out in his big melon head. Knowing Jay, he is such a softie, he may give her a second chance. He was a strange hybrid of sorts, not betraying his ethnicity, he had a pinch of misogyny when it came to his attitude toward women. Honestly, it seemed engrained, somewhat pitiful; almost like he didn't know any better. I could never imagine him hurting a woman, he was just a little rough around the edges. Ok, maybe a lot rough around the edges but a good guy, or so I thought.

The truth of the matter is, I wanted to give him an entirely different response when he asked me about Robyn. He had been trying to get a date with this girl at his gym for months now, and then he finally does and he is not going to call her back because she showed him some pictures on her phone? What a crock of shit! Maybe texting him three times since last night was a bit much. It's funny how men in their twenties can be so fickle at times. -Stop being such an asshole, Jay. Hell, it will catch up with him in time, a little humble pie never hurt no one.-

What I really wanted to tell him was, “You ever think she really likes you and she wants to share pictures of the animals and people she loves? Look at this as an endearing quality rather than a burdensome one? Stop being such a dick and open up a little bit too. I mean how would you prefer she act, ditzy and aloof?”

If I had to venture a guess he was trying to act “cool”. But of course I didn't offer such sage advise, instead I offered a brief piece of shit answer. You can't offer “Dear Abby” type advise in this neck of the woods. There is no prancing around these parts like a princess. You would lose respect in a millisecond and become either a joke or the station's fun pump. Either way it's a lose lose situation and I preferred to be respected as an equal; so I put on a more manly front. You have to. Women who don't, just never last here.

Truth is, on the outside I'm as girly as they come. I love your standard issue, “girly stuff”: pedicures, pretty little strappy sun dresses, prolonged excessive gossip, and I'm a sucker for romantic comedies that make grown men cringe.

As Captain Brewster dramatically burst through the door its metallic slam clanged as he blasted his bassy voice through the room, “Ok folks, let's cut the small talk here. Let's get with the program.”

Making his way across the room to a small wooden podium situated on a shifty metal desk, he demanded our attention with a bang of his beefy fist on its shallow surface. I liked him, he was always good to me and understood what it was like to be a single mom. I say single mom because although I was married, I lived my life as though I were raising the children alone. I preferred it that way, since it was only a matter of time before I actually was a "single mom".

Throughout my relationship with Alex, I was the only true caretaker in our “arrangement”. I was a mother of two when we met, and he vehemently insisted that he “loved them as his own”. Truth is he only loved them when it was convenient, much like an odd trophy of sorts. Occasional bragging rights would bolster his image as the ideal stepfather. But once the applause died, there was nothing. Among fellow churchgoers, he would swirl their already scoured brains into a frothy lather with his accounts of devoted parenting. Such Sunday semantics required knee high boots propped on pews, because the bullshit would flow up to your chin.

His profound allegiance to my children waned when the reality of a dreaded sniffle or sour stomach turned the children's world upside down and I could not excuse myself from work; Alex would then liken himself to a daycare professional. Capitalizing on the unfortunate luck of these children he claimed to “dearly love”, he would quickly offer an explanation that he saved me money in childcare and now he “deserved” a new trinket, a lobster dinner, or a bag of weed. I didn't care that he smoked in excess. Getting high, smokin' weed... I just figured it would increase the chance that he dumped that mini bike he called a motorcycle. Bring.it.on.

The sentiment which seemed to dominate our marriage was one of resentment with his varied domestic roles; random psychotic outbursts would relay his emasculated esteem. This was the battle that raged in his sick little head. On nights I came home late from work, often times he would lie in wait with his wannabe bike rumbling between his stalky thighs. He would lookout just minutes before I was expected to arrive, and as I walked toward our house he would startle me as he shot out like a rocket...revving his popcorn machine as he sped off. Another one of his pathetic attempts to feel in control, exerting a pitiful punishment of sorts; yet dangling on the edge of insanity.

Without disclosing all of my sordid details, it goes without saying at times the Captain knew when I just had to leave. Usually I was calm and even keeled under pressure, but when it came to my children I am nearly certain I wore eminent panic on my face. He could see that I'm sure, as a father himself. There was protocol that had to be maintained and I understood, but the Captain Brewster was always cool and I think he knew what was going on at home with me... deep down, but never said a word. In my book, the Captain gets two brightly beaming gold stars. Although at times, he had the stereotypical tough demeanor, yet another standard issue police protocol.

After an exasperated sigh and a quick pause to sip coffee from one seasoned coffee stained mug, the Captain started with his daily routine, “Ok, Benoit and Coppola you are going to be on the South End today, and everyone remember to reference the bench warrant list. There is a bunch of em' after last week, for some ungodly reason. Just be on the lookout for these runners, folks. Oh and another burglary last night, actually a couple on Comm. Ave. Luckily, no one was harmed and the residents slept through the commotion, but it appears that it may be the same suspect since the homes that were broken into were literally right next door to one another. There have been incident reports filled out by the reporting officers, please look at them, everyone! I want Maldonado and Chiatti to go down there today and take witness statements from surrounding residents. If they aren't home, figure it out. Make a phone call or two.”

Suddenly a shuffle in the room produced one perpetually tardy, Officer Sean Brewster. Sean was proof that the heart of nepotism steadily pumps well nourished blood through the core of the working world. Undoubtedly, he will need to RSVP for his own funeral when that lamentable time should finally come. As the Captain's nephew, he knew he could never be fired...If it weren't for the inner workings of nepotism he would be a well appointed fry cook at McDonalds; showing those egg mcmuffins whose boss.

The Captain's bravado hail resonated off the walls of the cramped concrete room, “Hey! What the Fuck, Brewster! I told you about this! Get the Fuck out! Take the day off!”

Of course, we all knew this was for show. Sean would gladly take the day off, he had what most would describe as “infinite job security”. Another banner day for Brewster...sitting at home, watching cable and drinking beer. We all wondered if he was paid for these days off, but no one had the balls to ask. It had become a funny kind of pathetic joke amongst the group and now no one wanted to work with him. It didn't really matter, it would usually give us something to banter about for days.

Visibly flustered with disappointment, the Captain continued, “Anyway, Adams and McManus you are going to be doing separate traffic details in Government Center. Apparently, the city thinks it's a good time to be doing road construction for the morning commute; so you are both there. I know it sucks but hey, there's a Starbucks down the road. Knock yourselves out.”

As he continued to spout the minutia of the day's itinerary, I sat entranced as I glanced out the window. The wind whipped red and gold leaves onto its moist surface. I would count the seconds till droplets of moisture released random debris from it's grasp. Strings of water, slowly dripped onto a brick ledge where the ugly pigeons flocked. I looked down pretending to scribble details in a mini spiral bound notebook I kept in my breast pocket. Even if I didn't have anything to write, I would pretend. More often than not, instructions were fairly straight forward, but for the occasional lunkhead that would screw it up.

After our daily debriefing, Jay and I head out. We made a brief stop for his morning Burger King “crossaintwich”. These days he's crazy about those lil' critters – with a sausage and hash brown-. You would never know by looking at him, his workouts were certainly not in vain.

With his stodgy greased up fingers plummeting into a spotty oil stained bag, he masticated his goodies in a few swift, yet ample bites as we made our to Comm. Ave. When we finally arrived where the burglaries occurred, we half expected no one to answer our knocks, and as expected, no one did. This was no surprise. These well appointed brownstone don't pay for themselves. The people who live here work hard to keep and maintain them, and it is not a little known fact. Otherwise there wouldn't be half as many “visitors” bearing crowbars, hammers and blunt like objects to harness their finely honed trade of larceny.

Residents who live in Back Bay usually came from money and are seasoned Boston natives. They remember a city that was safe and clean, hailing from a time when unlocked doors were homegrown staple. Unfortunately, many still live under this misguided impression. As it goes, it's hard to cope with such a downturn when you are accustomed to peace and quiet. For these residents, learning appropriate home security measures seemed futile, despite the numerous break-ins reported. As expected, for the wannabe criminals of Boston.... it became a goldmine.

We approached a few nearby homes and knocked on their doors and rang buzzers. Often times a large group of college students would rent and share space in this part of town, being nicely situated to schools, Landsdown Street, and Cambridge -the perfect recipe for the utopia that is college -. It was easy to catch college students at home during the day. Obtaining a lucid statement about what had occurred the night prior, well that is another story altogether.

We pushed a few buttons at the fourth brownstone we came to, which produced a recently awakened Ms. Cindy Ackley. Her voice crackled over the monitor with an intonation of sleep in her unfamiliar voice. “Umm, hello? Who is it?”

Jay answers, “It's the Boston PD, we have a few questions for you, if you have a minute.”

A slight pause lasting a few seconds ensued, she then questioned back, “What's going on? Why do you need to ask me questions?”

I finally chimed in, “Ma'am, we don't want to take up much of your time, there have been a string of burglaries next door to your residence and we are looking to see if there were any eye witnesses nearby.”

The very next sound we heard, a buzz followed by a click of the door. We entered the building and made our way to apartment B2.

Cindy quickly greeted us after the she hastily disengaged the latch on the door, “Hi, come on in. Sorry, I just woke up and the place is a mess, but sit down and make yourselves comfortable.”

We sat on a rather bohemian type couch that melded to the floor like one giant blob of bean bag mess. It was actually amusing as Jay and I sat with our knees practically up to our ears. Looking at my partner sit on this “chair”, I fought hard to resist the urge to chuckle. In fact, the entire apartment was a bohemian mess of Ikea type furniture, neat with no sign of little hands or feet to occupy its walls. Clearly, the home of a single girl.

Without delay Jay smiles laying on the charm, “Don't worry about it Miss, we don't want to take up much of your time we only have a few questions if you could help us out.”

Cindy is a pretty frail brunette girl with thin arms, a large round face with almond shaped eyes. She was wearing baggie short shorts on her underweight frame and a shirt that seductively exposed her right shoulder down to her elbow. With soft graceful features and delicate lines that traced down to the contours of her prominently displayed clavicle bone. She smiled and seemed to look down into herself. An outward exchange of flirtatious glances consumed the next few moments as I sat in uncomfortable silence.

Then she nods and says, “Sure, well the truth is I did see something. I was up late working on my thesis for my psychology class and I heard a commotion outside. I was sitting next to my window on my laptop and I saw two men, but I wasn't sure what was going on so I didn't think much of it. I was curious if they were visitors or not, but they seemed to be kind of slinking around. You know what I mean? Anyway, I was planning on calling the police today to see if someone called about any intruders. Truth is I didn't want to call if I wasn't sure. Sorry, plus I was really busy with my paper, I feel like kind of an asshole now that I didn't call. ”

-Yeah well, she got the asshole part right.-

I was mildly annoyed with the constant flirting between her and Jay. But I was happy that we found Cindy so early on in our shift. As she spouted details of what she had seen, Jay scribbled them on a victim witness statement which she later signed. She even saw the van they hopped into and jotted down the license plate number for our records, and although the streets were dimly lit, she was able to provide a fairly accurate description of the suspects. We got lucky. Needless to say, later we were able to utilize her for a lineup to identify the suspects.

Armed with what we had discovered, we were ecstatic that we didn't have to consume the rest of our week finding leads on these string of burlglaries. Thankfully, we had hit the mother load with Cindy. As the saying goes, “everything happens for a reason”. Indeed it had; with our respective agendas cleared we had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Ronald Steenley. Tomorrow we would meet for the first time as he had a strange preoccupation with beating his wife, a month from now we meet again...for his murder.

Chapter 1 - bile spewing monster.

-hello all, here is the first chapter. revisions and editing abounds, as I am trying to ready my manuscript within the next few weeks. So have patience, it's coming along....slowly but surely. More to come, folks. -for the curious macabre minds that abound-, yes, the snack cake incident really happened...along with several other incidents mentioned herein. I hope you enjoy, feel free to comment and share. my promise to you... i will provide a strange mix of humor and debauchery. enjoy...ciao ~b-

"Murder is a horror, but an often necessary horror, never criminal, which it is essential to tolerate in a republican State.... Is it or is it not a crime? If it is not, why make laws for its punishment? And if it is, by what barbarous logic do you, to punish it, duplicate it by another crime?" -Marquis Des Sade

The tinny clang of the wind chime undulated on the waves of the crisp fall air tantalizing the senses. The sound eagerly beckoned me to greet the day, its melodious charm was like delicate wings of a hummingbird fluttering on my cool skin. Unfortunately, like recent days that had passed, my head was still heavy from the bottle of chardonnay I single-handedly consumed; combined with an unyielding intense pain pulsing in my head and thigh. Briefly, I glanced down the side of my body- partially covered by one paltry fleece throw - Then quickly reminded of yesterday evening, as I noticed the deep maroon welt ripened on my left thigh.- My brain covered with an all too familiar cotton gauze of alcohol induced bliss; a subtle yet insistent pain dominated the lower part of my neck and head. A pain accompanied by the somber regret of last night's brawl.

An early November chill unnaturally pervaded my living room, its source another dreary tale to tell. My four year old son, Anthony, laid cozily nestled in the fetal position on our pitifully undersized futon. Having monopolized the lion's share of our Buzz Lightyear fleece throw, my fingers and face remained exposed leaving me cold and uninspired to attempt even the simplest of tasks.

Peering down at what was once my pristine beige wall to wall carpet, now soiled with snack cakes -zebra cakes to be precise-. I chuckled in spite of myself, knowing dread was forthcoming due to my ill inspired tirade of last night’s revenge. In fact, I would be swiftly reminded the moment I made my way to brew a crappy pot of Folger's coffee. Impetuous retribution loomed with the lurking monster down the hall... my husband -Alex-.

Even if I did not intend to sip this horrible brew, he insisted I have coffee freshly brewed for when he finally made his glorious appearance. I just did it, it wasn't worth the heartache and the nasty emails that would infiltrate my blackberry. The smell of freshly brewed coffee would wake him and then torture would ensue. What was I to expect? What made this day different from any other? Not much, same old bullshit.

The unnatural chill in the air would lend itself to an all too familiar, “Alex temper tantrum”. After his toddler like antics, I preferred the company of my four year old son; with the soft noise of cartoons to soothe us into peaceful slumber. Of course, this decision did not come without consequence. What this meant for Anthony and I: sleeping with all windows fully opened to allow the cool New England air to disturb any chance we may have had for peaceful rest. Alex sat seething with anger in a folding chair, squarely placed in the center of the room, intently watching to ensure not one window was closed. This was our punishment and we had better endure it, without complaint.

That night I covered us both as we drifted off to sleep, as I lay praying not to be violently thrust out of sleep; my son had been through enough. The temperature was unpleasant but the covers combined with snuggling, made it bearable. My sole intention... to comfort Anthony to sleep, by all accounts I should have left; if I hadn't feared such an attempt would produce an unimaginable beating. Eventually that night Alex made his way to our bedroom, muttering his small minded insults, but then briefly to return in the morning hour. Doling out more shit.

Alex was the worst kind of monster, an abusive prick, a menacing nature that was indiscriminate in its choosing. An obsessive neat freak with a side of bi-polar, just for fun. He would blend perfectly into most settings and was the most delightful showman at nearly any occasion. The loving husband, stepfather and fellow churchgoer.

During requisite outings, an awkward moment of hand holding and his sickening cheek kisses would produce coos from surrounding onlookers because of the wonderful “love” we shared. Inside I would count the minutes until any given church sermon or family gathering was over -usually noting the time, wondering if it was too early for a glass of wine-. Nearly every outing was due to his adamant request; where I was displayed like a possession. Like a doll, a doll that was expected to only speak on occasion.

He would tell people “stories”, funny stories. Alex loved his “funny stories”, problem was these stories were usually only funny to him; and more often than not ridiculing for me. When he carried on with this comedy routine of sorts, he would receive uncomfortable silence rather than his anticipated uproarious laughter. This wouldn't stop his continuous side show. Laughing sometimes till all the blood rushed to his face, bumping elbows encouraging others to join...I would sit dumbfounded at what a huge prick I married. I remained unmoved and silent, bravery in numbers and sticking up for myself wasn't an option, ever.

Alex insisted we attend church regularly, but this weekly exercise was accompanied with a healthy dose of hypocrisy. While he would gloat about his weekly routine of churchanity and prayers, I sat mentally filtering through a litany of excuses to leave the house that afternoon -groceries? no. dry cleaning? Ehh. Visit with mom? He hated my mother. Maybe a friend?-. As the harmonious mass of worshipers harmonized hymns or became consumed by the spirit with tongues, it was then I would embrace my wonderful daydreams.

Daydreams tip-toed through my mind and delighted my already numbed sensibilities. Daydreams with a bus, a colossal bus, a bus filled to maximum capacity- bearing decrepit brakes crackling from their hinge, excessive speed, one rapidly advancing hulking mass... Enters one Alex, stepping from the curb, oblivious and flattened with great prejudice.

Only rubber saturated with remnants of organs and blood remained to attest to one pitiful meager existence; that and chunky streaks of blood smeared on the asphalt like thick frosting on a cake. The audience is one: me. Singing praises! Hallelujah! -worship had never met the acquaintance of an irony so oddly suiting, yet grand-. I often would pray my dreams came true.

As I laid there that morning, surveying the room. Thankfully, I discovered... he was still asleep. The sadly smeared snack cake that now soiled my carpet signaled the occurrence of my bi-monthly boiling point. Usually I tried to reserve my explosive temper, but when the emotional pressure cooker had been stewing for a month or two...a fit of blind rage would conquer me. The evening prior, Alex insisted there were crumbs on the carpet...his carpet; and they were from my son's mouth. Filthy, pesky little morsels of food that would systematically dismantle an otherwise perfect world for his highness, a kingdom where clean carpets and perfectly ordered cabinets ruled the day.

As he persisted on the matter, his ugly face curled with disdain. Screaming with toes tipped forward leaning into my body, saliva sprayed randomly toward my cheeks and hair as he pushed insistently against the bridge of my nose -drill sergeant like antics from one reinvented Napoleon- spouting on my lack of supervision and my “bastard kids” who had no respect for his house and his things.

Precedent anticipated an inescapable onslaught of swears and torment. Alex prattled on, spewing remarks such as, 'bitch' and 'how dare you let your child.' Continuously pressing his bloated face against the bridge of my nose, strings of saliva reeking of hops exploding from his mouth, with a hot rush of halitosis assaulting my face. Needless to say a reprieve from such antics was not foreseen in the near future.

Then it happened, my patience dangerously thin, without a second thought I grabbed snack cakes from the pantry and tore open their gentle cellophane wrappers. Instead of plummeting the gentle spongy goodness into my mouth, I tossed them onto the carpet and smooshed them with my feet. Feeling the ooze of sugary frosting envelope my toes was almost euphoric. Only knowing how ironic this sweet revenge would truly be, and how angry it would make the monster that loomed over my son and I.

Of course my sense of victory would be fleeting and came to a screeching halt. In fact it had, with a blast of his clenched fist to my mouth and my body abruptly slamming to the floor. The cool salty taste of blood filled my mouth. I laid there for a minute to determine damage control, softly rubbing and caressing the pile of my rug, rubbing it slowly between my fingers. Any sensation other than the one I had felt, at that very moment, was much preferred. I brought my hand to my mouth running my finger along the line of my lower lip, feeling the jagged skin serrated by my lower teeth. I softly chuckled- but only for a brief moment. It was my last ditch effort to intimate lack of concern for the invasive force that was my looming monster, an attempt to preserve a shred of self worth which remained.

As the sensation of pain coursed through my face and head, I could feel my mouth pooling with blood and funneling in a fine stream from along the corners of my mouth. I quickly ran my tongue throughout the insides of my mouth only to discover a meaty flap of skin peeling back; a large bumpy chunk of skin flapping against my now blood drenched tongue. The perfect accompaniment: one instantaneous welt on the side of my face. I laid still, mustering the will to stand, only to receive a blunt blow of his heel to my thigh. Coming attractions appearing on a thigh near you - a four inch multi-colored bruise-.

During this unwholesome encounter, my son stood crying and asked, 'Why my mouth was so bloody?'. It goes without saying, my core was searing with a fiery shame. I was only glad my eldest son, Nicholas, was sleeping soundly in his bed at the time. When I knew an argument was on the horizon, I would attempt to keep it out of the purview of my children. Alex did not share this mindset. It was his house, he would say as he wished whenever the mood would suit him.

That morning, after my short lived chuckle fest being reminded of one dearly departed snack cake, I made my way to the kitchen across our linoleum floor to which my feet stuck with every step. Alex tossed a full container of lemonade that rested on the counter while spouting some choice obscenities. Undoubtedly, a sticky mess he expected me to clean... too bad I would be sure to disappoint on this expectation. On a side note, the floor remained sticky for the remainder of the week; a silent battle of the wills proved me to be the victor. He couldn't help himself, he had to clean it, it was in his DNA.

My mind running through the horror of last night, I rifled through a drawer looking for a coffee filter. Then with coffee brewing, I made my way to the bathroom, a place that would ordinarily lend itself a safe refuge. I sat and considered options until a deep round impression had developed on my ass. I didn’t care. The pain in my face and head was persistent, which ironically kept me focused.

Once I left the bathroom, armed with a myriad of thoughts racing through my clouded mind, I rounded the corner to our kitchen... there he stood. A steaming red unshaven face in one partially opened terry cloth robe -exposing his undersized boxer shorts, the man believed he still had a 32-inch waist...he was mistaken-. Instantly berating me, expecting a discussion followed by one heartfelt tearful apology. Again, I would disappoint, since I would have sooner kissed a boar's filthy ass. He then entered his standard plea that I should no longer 'make him react this way', and 'please don't make him so angry any more'. All the while I thought, “Please, please just shut the fuck up. Dear Lord, strike him down with one swift heart attack, it doesn't have to be painful.”

During the first year of our marriage I had forgiven more often than not and was absurdly convinced by onslaughts of promises to change. Of course, the change never happened and the violent mood swings and physical attacks only escalated with time. As time went on the beatings worsened, apologies became a rare commodity, and sincerity considerably waned. He knew an apology was moot and would only fall on my then numbed sensibilities. I was to blame, with no other excuse or promise to offer....I was the sole cause.

I was completely devoid of any reverence for our marriage. Much like a dead water buffalo floating along a river, seeping toxic juices into an otherwise healthy stream of water; he was polluting our lives. I kept myself busy with my children and work. After all, I knew it was only a matter of time before our marriage finally died...the sooner the better. Now I knew I was just procrastinating. This had to stop.

Standing in the kitchen that morning, I affected intentful concern as he harangued with his tired rant. As expected he artfully spun, what I referred to as, his "bathrobe soapbox routine". I poured myself a cup of coffee, figuring I would be there for while. He was so pathetic. Coincidentally, not much would motivate this man to change into street clothes prior to noon. He had nowhere to be, after all that's what he had a wife for. I hated every essence of his being, even the way his forehead wrinkled into what seemed like a fine point as he snarled. I wanted to jab it with a pencil till I penetrated his tiny skull.

After he was finished his lecture of sorts, I looked at him with a cool gaze and remained stoic and unmoved in response to the unmitigated slew of bullshit. Saying nothing, I then turned to leave the room. As I continued to walk from the room, not to my surprise, I was thrust forward... coffee cup and all. I then laid with my head adjacent to a wall, now covered in caffeine spray marks, and my knees slightly shaven by the carpet.

I quickly stood with my back faced toward him and made my way to the bedroom to collect my uniform for the day. He continued to follow me, muttering insults. Typically my silence would incense him to the point of unmitigated madness. However, on occasion my silence would cause him retreat to his office. Luckily, today, my silence had done just that. Thank God.

When Alex took sanctuary in his office, he would spend a majority of his time emailing his friends, family or various political columns; as he was perpetually unemployed. Historically, he would be employed for about a month or two and then fired for insubordination or the like. His days were typically filled with making phone calls to jam up my voicemail on Alex’s thoughts of the day, and somehow -by some stroke of a miracle- I managed to block out his incensing voice. He would prattle on, and I could only hear sounds of muffled mumbles; hatred for this man had consumed me.

Usually on a “normal” morning I had time to focus on the day ahead and I looked forward to the quiet solitude of my morning commute. Prior to ten am, I could count on Alex resting peacefully- not a care in the world. Ordinarily, the morning I cherished quiet solitude. On a "normal" day, this would go off without a hitch, but occasionally my routine would be sharply jolted by a shove or a slap. On this morning, I was lucky enough to avoid another forceful blast to the face, but unlucky enough to require ten pounds of foundation applied to my left cheekbone; I had become rather skilled in covering the war wounds.

One can only forgive the unforgivable so often. I was ready. It had been almost four years. I was nearing the cathartic finale, I felt it penetrate the inner depths of my soul. It was almost over, finally over... I stood eagerly at the precipice of a future filled with hope and happiness. A future filled with one dead Alex. A future filled with one happy me. A future filled with one less prick.

Now I only faced one task.