Six Flavours of Sin

by Poppet

  When I get home I kick into autopilot and make dinner. I do everything that I do everyday. Yes, you heard me. Everything.

  I was under house arrest for three months for that day. I am now twenty-three and being treated like a naughty toddler. I may not have phone calls, or go out.

  Why did I just compliantly do this? Where was my spine? Where was my head? Ooooh yeah, right. So far up Gary's ass I couldn't see Nirvana any longer.

  He became irrational. He would go out – (a man has to do what a man has to do) – and come home over the weekends, sporadically. He would walk in, leaving the door open, and run his hand over the curtain rail, "There's dust on here! It'd better be clean when I get home!"

  What do you mean when you get home? You just got home!

  And he would leave as dramatically as he arrived. I cooked everyday, I cleaned everything. (I even washed the fucking walls.) The house and routine were so amazing that I would have eaten confidently off my own floors: the Queens of Clean, Aggie and Kim, would have been so proud. He made life as awkward as he could, putting pressure on me daily to "change jobs".

  Reason set in. I'd had to catch the bus for months. He no longer cared if I got mugged on my way home. So, using the few brain cells I still engaged, I found employment doing exactly the same thing for a branch much closer to home. Close enough to walk.

  This made Gary happier. He was reborn as Mr Charming, ‘I'm going to fuck you until you walk like a cowgirl’, Gary. Gary: the one and only master of the deranged.

  In truth, I’m happier too. The crowd at this place are my age, and out together every weekend. I feel like one of the crowd, and welcome.

  Three months, and I take a stand one Sunday afternoon. Gary didn't have to answer to me. He never did. He came and went as though I was his house slave. (Which I am: let's face facts here.) But I am no longer content with it. He walked to the door primped and ready, when I demanded, "Where are you going?"

  "Out."

  Oh, I can see that, asshole!

  "Where are you going?"

  Hey, where did that authority in my voice come from?

  He throws me a stunned expression, "To play pool."

  "I'm coming with you."

  I wasn't asking. I was telling. If he'd said no, I would not have been there when he got home. And I think he sensed this.

  "Okay. Sure. Why not."

  I grab my smokes, giving him no reason to stall, or find an excuse. The house is bloody perfect in every aspect, so that one's off the board. I stalk past through the open door and to his vehicle.

  In silence we drive to the pool place down the road from UCT . He seems strangely nervous. I don't know if it's because of the stunt I just pulled, or some other reason.

  (You are about to find out why blondes are considered stupid.)

  Gary and I never hold hands, or make a display of being a couple in public, (unless another man is looking at me.) So, I trail him into the room filled with pool tables, and stop dead as this pretty, young, willowy wisp of a girl comes running across the expanse and throws her arms around his neck, "GAREEEEE."

  He looks embarrassed, "Oh, hi."

  I see this for what it is and calmly walk past to the gang, who are all waiting at a table already playing. (I need a fucking cigarette. Now. Hands, if you shake, I will chop you off.)

  I light a smoke and watch the spectacle.

  The old me resurfaced. The girl who would break a nose because she knew she could – and you are out of line.

  It was almost funny watching his friends scatter. The men all dived for excuses to leave their game unfinished. I stood with Cindy to my left, and a very nervous Kristy on the other side of the table, gulping at me with gigantic green eyes. Everyone was waiting for my reaction. Gary drops ‘cookie’ like a hot coal, and dives for the bar. (What a man!)

  Sweet little Miss Sunflower flounces around the table, and smiles her big brown eyes at me, "Hi!"

  I smile, "Hi." Calmly smoking.

  I watch her ogling Gary with obvious adoration. I don't blame her. This isn't her fault. I ask her über casually, "So how long have you being seeing Gary?"

  She's beaming, she's so proud to be his girl, "Three months."

  I see myself in her. I stood in those dancer's shoes. I know how she feels.

  She suddenly assumes the cat-fight stance, sensing that I have a 'claim' on her man. My rage is giving me lucidity I haven't had in years. Want to fight, baby girl? You are how old? Eighteen?

  I face her, and put my smoke down in an ashtray right next to us. "Oh, that's interesting." I hold up my hand and shove the emerald engagement ring in her face, "I've been engaged and living with him for three years."

  (She can thank me now for saving her from him. I hope you get to read this book, baby girl.)

  Her face becomes instantly ashen. Her eyes are swallowing her nose and her mouth is gasping for air. She goes into shock, "I am so sorry ... I didn't know ... If I ... I would never ..."

  I know she didn't know. My smile, although warning, also contains masses of sympathetic understanding. "I know."

  She runs like a banshee apparition from the pool tables. Long, straight brown hair flowing out behind her. She is so upset, she doesn't say a word to Gary.

  Now get this!

  Gary comes bolting over with brews in his hand, a cue case in the other, and yells at me, "What the fuck did you just say to her?"

  Excuse me?

  My mouth sets into a rigid line, I'm trying to stop myself from killing him. I repeat the exchange, word for word. He drops everything onto the green felt of the table and goes running out after her.

  I pick up my smoke and stare at the silent and guilty faces watching me. Alan, Graham, Cindy, Kristy and Charl. And fuck all of you.

  Cindy blabbers as she grapples with my arm, "I wanted to tell you!"

  I'm still smoking and know that all human emotion has left my eyes. I'm not intimidating – (come on, I'm five-foot-two) – and they all look as scared as boiling lobster.

  Kristy beseeches, "I wanted to, but didn't know how."

  I say nothing. I put out my smoke and stuff the box back into my pocket. I stare at each one of them in turn. Then so calmly – (man, I wish someone had recorded that. I'd get such a kick out of seeing pride gel my bone marrow again, resurrecting dignity) – I take my engagement ring off and place it onto the green felt next to the case and condensing beer cans.

  With pride that had been missing for years, I walked out of the room and out of the glass doors.

  Gary was pleading with the pretty baby girl as she drove her car away from him.

  I walk past, and keep walking.

  "Woman. Woman! Where are you going?"

  I don't look back as I lift my hand and raise my middle finger.

  I'm in shock. I am not feeling anything at all. No tears, no pain ... nothing.

  Chapter 12

  Click

  A huge part of me naively hoped that he would come rushing after me to beg for forgiveness and to salvage my loyalty. Yes, I'm a dreamer. No, actually scratch that. I am delusional.

  (How could I think he loved me? He obviously didn't! How much proof did I need?)

  Anyway, so I'm walking. My hopes are dashed and I’m panicking about how much shit I'm going to be in for ruining his rendezvous. Okay, Sunday afternoon seems like the perfect time to go for a run. Run? Hahaha. I’m sprinting as if I'd just stolen the Queen's tiara. I have to get home before him. I have to get out before he pitches up to twist my mind to his will again.

  (I’m a dedicated member of the Gary cult. He could talk me into doing anything. I’m aware enough to recognise this, so am fleeing as if my life depends on it.)

  Due to past occurrences, I don't go anywhere without my own key. I never know when he's going to pull his superiority shit on me and turn me into the peasant who has to make her own way home. Breathless, I open the front door. My heart is pounding from the exercise, making hearing difficult. I am faint with relief that he'
s not there. In nanoseconds I pack work clothes, some weekend gear and other essentials.

  Then I have a stand-off with the telephone mounted on the wall. Who am I going to call? My pride won't let me call Mom. So I swallow hard and phone the only ‘outside of Gary’ friend I have, a new friend from work, Selene. (I was so scared that Gary would find My Hero's number, I chucked it. He's now left that division and I can't locate him. I regret this!)

  Thank the angels that she lives in the same area. And he will never know where to look for me.

  Shaking, with violently trembling hands, I call her.

  "Selene. Hi, it's Stefanie … No, I'm not okay. I hate to do this, but can I ask you if I can stay at your place tonight?"

  (I'm scrambling. If I can't stay there indefinitely, I'll have to make another plan tomorrow. Right now I just have to get out before he gets home.)

  Selene is a very special person. She never asks questions. She's just there. No matter what. She doesn't need to know why, or how, or what, the fact that I need to get out is reason enough for her.

  "I'm on my way!"

  "I'll meet you halfway. I'm leaving now."

  I take my keys, slam the door and run.

  (Cue: Chariots of Fire theme music.)

  She finds me not four minutes later. I get into her red pick-up with a huge stuffed tote bag on my lap. She takes one look at me and says, "You need a drink."

  I am so embarrassed I start rambling, "I'm so sorry. I had no one else I could call."

  She gives me one stare of her chocolate mousse eyes, "It's okay. Don't explain. You can stay as long as you want."

  Her dependability just makes emotional perception flood into me. And I stare persistently out of the window choking back tears. (I'm big into ‘I can do this! I can handle it! I'm brave! I can be strong!’)

  Somewhat uncomfortably, I follow her into her home, where she shows me the spare room. I leave my bag on the bed and unearth my smokes. She smokes too, thank heavens.

  She pours me a huge glass of wine and puts music on. She likes alternative, and we get along really well for a host of reasons. I love the band playing, Surrounded By Idiots. I light a smoke just as she lights her own. She raises her glass.

  "To dumping losers!"

  I smile. "Cheers."

  Her eyes are examining me with undisguised concern.

  I swallow my embarrassment and pride and tell her what transpired earlier, although I never ever tell her about the rest of that story. It's my shame, and I try very hard to hide the truth from everyone.

  She nods, "You're better off without him."

  I am a looney. I should have taken the day off work, but I don't. Monday morning we arrive at work together. I'm still shaken and can't eat. Hence, I'm not myself and very pale.

  I've made a few friends at this place, and most of them sense that I'm not okay. I can tell, because they keep on asking me if I'm okay.

  "I'll be fine."

  I must say that work is a total blessing. It keeps me distracted and busy. By midday I'm feeling almost normal.

  The phone on my desk rings. I deal with investment clients from 8 a.m. daily. So, this isn't a cause for me to panic. If he cared, he would have phoned by now anyway.

  "Stefanie speaking, how may I help you?"

  "Woman ..."

  I hang up, instantly adrenalised and angry. I will not speak to anyone who starts a sentence calling me, ‘woman’. My hands start shaking, and I push myself forcefully away from the desk. I stalk to the switchboard and tell the adorable lady, (who becomes another friend), "If that guy calls again, please just take a message. It's a personal call and I only have time today for business calls.”

  "What's his name?" she asks me, as if I'd just reprimanded her.

  "Gary Fuchs."

  "Okay," she nods. She takes her duties seriously and keeps me safe from him. None of his calls are put through to me for the rest of the day.

  That evening, I need time alone. Selene lives on a high hill with a stunning view. At night it looks like a wonderland, and you can stare down at traffic, lights and traffic lights from afar. The colours of all the lights in the dark, remind me of alluring sprinkles dusting a cupcake. Just too enticing to resist.

  It's time for me to face my feelings. I take a walk out there and get comfortable on a rock. I have a new box of smokes with me and light one, then stare miserably at the twinkling wonderland.

  The puzzle pieces start falling into place. Since my house arrest, Gary had begun badgering me to stop being ‘such a prude and so old fashioned’.

  He wanted a threesome. I am a one man woman. I don't share my man.

  CLICK. He was priming baby girl to be his third party victim in his ménage à trois. (So call me old fashioned. I justified everything because I was in a ‘monogamous’ relationship. Oy vey, what a hopeless, clueless, blow up doll I am.)

  CLICK: "I need time alone with the lads. We're sick of women interfering."

  Oh yeah, I bet. Having your partner there when you're trying to pick up new blood would never work.

  CLICK: "I'm not going to make it. I have to work late. Maybe you should catch the bus."

  So you can pick up your girlfriend and shag her before coming home!

  I'm a daft twit. AC/DC has been warning me for weeks. We're nowhere near Christmas, yet, ‘Mistress for Christmas’ was played every morning as the wake-up song.

  Okay, this isn't good. The anger is surfacing and it's crushing me. I think back to how many times over the last few months that he has only reached home after 10 p.m. at night. How strangely he's more tired than he's ever been. And this stupid idiot made dinner and waited for him before eating it. Waited for hours!

  Oh, and suddenly he has a pager. Funny how convenient it is that Charl works with him at the I.T. company and can page him at any hour, and it looks like a call out. All times, even over weekends, 8 p.m., 10 p.m., 2 a.m.

  I feel so stupid and angry.

  What's worse is I'm not angry with him. I'm angry with myself.

  Bitter hot tears start dropping onto my cigarette, it fizzles out with a hiss. The past four years just went phissss, along with that ember.

  I met Gary just before I turned twenty. I've been with him for four years, and he's had me jumping like a fire-walker since six months in. I am twenty-three and I feel old and used. I feel ugly and worthless. I hate myself.

  I have done things that have made me lose my self-respect. I loathe who I am. I am ashamed to walk amongst women. I shame us all.

  Gary didn't buy me soft toys or cute gifts; he didn't want anything girly cluttering up his home with ‘crap’. He was my toy. If I wanted something to hold onto, he was the one to be my teddy. (Except teddies don't have conditions and rules and ‘needs’.)

  He didn't buy me jewellery, (except twice, my twenty-first and our engagement). Instead, he gave me what he considered to be fitting jewellery. A pearl necklace, at least four times a week. He had this fantasy that he enjoyed acting out. It's called, by him, the Bombay roll. Lucky me. I get the kind of jewellery that you have to wash out of your hair and off your flaming face. Now, if they had been pearls of wisdom, I might not have minded so much. (I guess he did have to do some diving to give me pearls … but let's face facts, I'm the one that can hold my breath like a natural pearl diver, not him. When he goes diving, he doesn't even wear a wet-suit.)

  For the record: handcuffs with keys do not count as jewellery, even if they look like bangles.

  CLICK: I have nothing personal up in that home. There's no sign that a woman lives there. After all this time, I'm a ghost. A convenient ghost. The shoemaker's elf, that not only cooks and cleans but also the genie in the bottle, making all wishes come true.

  (So what does that make Gary? The Magi, or Aladdin?)

  CLICK: He has been missing all weekend for the past three months. Popping in at random, to find a reason to keep me home and busy, ensuring my endless servitude to his unreasonable demands – because he was out wooing his new la
dy.

  CLICK: I haven't been able to save a cent. Not for years. He allocates my salary every month. He takes me grocery shopping to police what I buy, and to make sure that I am never alone. So that I can never leave.

  CLICK: He's sick. And I'm not ever going to let a man degrade and treat me like that ever again.

  Click click click click click click click click click click – like someone driving me insane with a pen and they have a nervous condition or twitch.

  I stare at the smudging night. I have no idea where all of these tears are coming from, but they're breaking me in half. I bow my head and bury my nose between my knees; wracked and broken, I weep.

  The worst. The absolute worst, is what he's done recently. He wouldn't leave it.

  He kept on insisting that we have anal intercourse. Why? What for? I even researched it, to understand where the pleasure could lie in such an act. I discovered that the prostate gland is there in men, and if ‘agitated’ induces an orgasm. But women have no such thing. I refused to do it. And I told him why!

  Sigh. He had recently being playing that song a lot ... and singing with it ... something about a back door male.

  Cue song: SBI, ‘Violently Opposed’.

  Did I need a bigger sign board?

  (Actually, I'm so ridiculously trusting, that what I needed was the front page of the newspaper announcing it to me, whilst a plane writes it in smoke in the sky, and every radio station broadcasts, ‘WAKE UP ZOMBIE!’)

  But when you're handcuffed on your knees, he can pretty much do whatever he wants. And he did. (Am I a dumb blonde or am I just dumb?) You've heard the saying, right? Never be too open minded, your brains may fall out.

  No offence, if you enjoy buggery. I personally find being buggered unappealing.

  Okay. Now I hate him. I have been a Stepford Wife who blows him away whenever he needs a shuttle launch, for years. He has held the remote control that makes sure his woman does everything he desires. (The mute button even worked – for Pete's sake, he probably wrote that script.) Talk about his fantasy come true.