“Oh yeah,” I gasp, my voice husky, gruff. “Yeah! Come on baby! Ride my pony!” I say, my words a little slurred. I’ve had too much to drink, I shouldn’t have knocked it back the way I did before we came home, had way too much aquavit. Didn’t stop me getting a hard-on, though, no problem there. But what now? Why’s she stopping. She’s stopped riding me. I open my eyes and look at her. Suddenly there’s laughter in her face. She looks away, tries to hide it by glancing to the side, but she can’t. Tries to start riding me again, but can’t do that either. She just sits there laughing, laughing at what I said.
A second, and then I feel my face getting hot. I hadn’t meant to say what I said, but I said it, it just slipped out and now she’s sitting there laughing. I’m getting hotter and hotter, I’m going red, I know I’m going red. As if I should have more reason to be embarrassed than her. As if she’s any better than me. Sitting there with her eyes shut, moaning heavily and showing me her tongue. Trying to look like a porn model. That’s what she was doing. And yet there she is, sitting on top of me, smirking. She’s no fucking better than me and yet she’s making fun of me. I stare at her. Feel the desire drain out of me, my cock shrink, feel it contract and slip right out of her. And all of a sudden I’m lying here with a limp little cock, a pygmy prick. And she’s sitting on top of me, laughing. Smirking. And then comes the rage. This enormous wave. It rises up inside me. I stare at her for a second, then I feel my lips widen in a thin smile. A cold smile. There’s this wild rage inside me, but on the outside I’m cold and calm.
“Sorry, Tom Roger,” she says, laughing as she says it. “Sorry,” she gasps again. A second, and then she puts her hand over her mouth. Tries to stifle her laughter. Her shoulders are shaking. And the rage builds up inside me. Sitting there laughing at me. Making fun of me. And the rage surges up inside me. This wild rage. Overwhelming me. But I keep smiling. Smiling calmly as I clench my right fist. Give it a second and then I let fly. All of a sudden. Smack on the mouth. Feel my knuckles connecting with her front teeth. That feeling of front teeth giving slightly, wonderful feeling. Hard teeth bending back into the mouth. It only lasts for a fraction of a second and then she topples off me and lands on her back on the floor. Cold, sharp slap as the naked body hits the wooden floor. Another second, then I get up off the sofa. Unsteadily. I’m even drunker than I thought. I stagger a bit as I make my way over to the armchair. Lift my boxer shorts off the chair, red boxer shorts. Taking it nice and easy. I’ve got this wild rage inside me, but on the outside I’m cool and calm. I don’t even look at Mona. Smile as I step into my boxer shorts. Bend down and pick my trousers off the floor, put them on, nice and easy. Look at her as I zip up my fly. Smile calmly, coolly. And Mona puts a hand to her mouth and cries softly. The blood seeps between her fingers, red blood on her slim white hand.
“You’ve got no reason to laugh, Mona,” I say. I hear my voice. Cool, almost soft voice. “I’m not the only one who gets ideas from those porn movies we watch,” I say as I bend down and pick up my vest. “The way you lick your lips, you didn’t come up with that yourself.”
I pause. Pull on my vest, tight-fitting vest, hugging my body, big brawny body. I blink. I’m drunker than I thought. I blink lazily. Look at her and smile. See her frightened eyes, bird eyes. The faint flutter in her throat as she swallows.
“But I don’t laugh at you for that,” I go on, smiling.
“I’m sorry, Tom Roger,” she stammers.
“That’s okay. Now go and clean yourself up and we’ll forget all about it,” I say.
My speech is a bit slurred. I give it a couple of seconds. But she doesn’t get up. Just sits there crying.
“Hey!” I say. I give it a second, but she doesn’t react. “Hey!” I say again, a bit louder this time. Sharper. “Don’t give me that pathetic look,” I say. But she just sits there. Sits there looking miserable, hurt. Puts her hand to her mouth, wipes the blood off her chin. A second, and then the rage surges through me again, explodes.
“Stop that, for fuck’s sake!” I roar.
I hear my harsh, grating voice. A voice that fills the whole room. I see Mona jump. She flinches, puts her hands over her ears. I stare at her with wild, bulging eyes. There’s this enormous rage pressing against the backs of my eyes, pounding. I give it a second, then I shake my head. Suddenly I’m perfectly calm inside, it’s like pressing a button, it just happens.
“I’m sorry, Mona,” I say. I pick up the vodka bottle and fill my glass. Look at her as I raise my glass to my lips. I really shouldn’t have any more. I’m more than drunk enough, but I knock it back anyway. Lukewarm vodka, neat. “I didn’t mean to shout, but I can’t take that pathetic look of yours,” I say, setting my glass down on the table with a little clunk. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Look at Mona and smile. “But we’ll forget all about that now,” I say. “Shall we?” I ask. I look at her, give it a moment. But she doesn’t answer. “Hmm?” I say.
“Yes,” she says softly.
“And talk normally!” I snap. “I can’t take that pathetic tone of yours either. Okay, now we’re both going to get a grip,” I say. “Right?”
She looks at me and nods. Tries to smile. But it’s not a genuine smile. It’s a watery smile designed to make me feel sorry for her. And I gaze at the floor. I sigh and shake my head. Stand like that, looking exasperated for a moment or two, then I raise my eyes and look at her again. Wait a moment. Blink slowly.
There’s total silence.
“Well do it, then!” I roar.
I suddenly switch and start roaring at her. I explode. It just happens. A harsh, grating roar that comes from way down deep in my belly. A beast that wants out of me, needs to get out.
“Don’t, Tom Roger!” she whimpers.
And I twist my face into a sneer.
“Don’t, Tom Roger,” I say, mimicking her.
I hear my voice, all distorted, stupid sounding.
“Oh, please!” she whimpers.
“Oh, please!” I repeat, mimicking her again.
I walk right up to her. Stare at her. See the terror in her eyes. Bird eyes. She edges away. Pushing off with her heels and trying to get away. But I walk after her. My feet. Feet walking across the living room floor. Walking slowly. Walking right up to her. I tense every muscle in my body as I bend over her. My big, bulging muscles. And my eyes bulge, grow big and round as eggs. Big, bulging eyes. The rage presses against the back of my eyes, pounds, my eyes feel like they’re about to pop right out of my head and my face is all twisted. I feel the rage pulling my face out of shape. The beast is taking over.
“Would you stop that, please?” I roar.
But she doesn’t stop, she just carries on. Sobbing, pleading, with her hands covering her face.
“Stop it, dammit!” I roar, roaring as loud as I can, and it feels like my throat is going to burst, crack, it’s like my throat is too small for such a big voice, a voice that fills the whole room.
“Tom Roger,” she sobs, whimpers.
Two seconds.
“Hey,” I say, and suddenly my voice is perfectly normal again, my voice is almost gentle now, I don’t know why, it just is, it just happens. “Hey, didn’t you hear what I said?” I ask. “Hmm? Didn’t you hear me? Don’t I exist?” I say, a little louder this time. “Is that it?” I say. “I asked you to wipe that pathetic fucking look off your face! Could you do me that one favor, please?” I say. “Is that too much to ask?” I say. “Well? Is it?” I say, staring at her with my big, bulging, egg-like eyes.
But she just keeps going. She won’t fucking stop. Just sits there sobbing, whimpering. Doing exactly the opposite of what I’ve asked her to do.
“Stop it, Tom Roger,” she sobs.
“I’m to stop it?” I shout, seething. I straighten up sharply. Stare at her and grin furiously. Fling out my hand and try to look as if I can’t believe my ears. “I’m to stop it? I ask you as nicely as I can to wipe that pathetic look off your face and talk normally, but instead you
do the exact opposite and start howling,” I say. I bend down to her again just as sharply. Bring my face right down to hers. “But I’m to stop it,” I say. “It’s not enough that you sneer and smirk at me when we’re having sex, then you try to fucking antagonize me as well!”
“Oh, please, Tom Roger!” she whimpers. Peers at me through the gaps in her spread fingers, her eyes terrified.
“Talk properly!” I roar, roar so loud that I see her hair lifting in the blast. “If I hear one more whimper out of you I’ll punch you right through the ceiling!” I roar. “Get it?” I roar.
She draws her legs up to her chest, hides her face behind her knees and covers her head with her hands. And I just stand there. Staring at her. But still she won’t fucking stop. She’s doing the exact opposite of what I asked her to do. Always the exact opposite. Sitting there whimpering. Crying. And it explodes inside me. This great surge of rage. It fills me. It breaks out of me. This beast. It bursts out, leaps forward. And I put my left hand to the back of her head, grab hold of her long hair, coil her hair around my left hand, grip it tight, hold her fast. Grin furiously through clenched teeth.
“Ow, that hurts, Tom Roger. Let go, it hurts … it hurts,” she cries and I haul on her hair, bend her head back … “Tom Roger, Tom Roger,” … hoist her up by her hair, drag her up onto her feet … “Tom Roger, please. Let me go, let go …” Fine, fair hair coiled tight around my fist. I bend her head back until her face is turned upwards, white face shining at me, and her throat, long and exposed, the faint flutter in her throat when she swallows. I bring my face right down to hers, stare into her big eyes, scared bird eyes. “Tom Roger, let go, ow, ow, that hurts …” Her breath on my face, the smell of beer …
“No, don’t hit me, Tom Roger, please.”
I take a step towards her and she backs away, putting her hands out in front of her as she backs away, but I just brush them aside, brush aside both her hands with my left hand, roughly, so roughly that she loses her balance and staggers to the side, she has to put out a hand to stop herself from falling, knocks the cactus over as she sticks out her hand. There’s a dull thud as the pot hits the floor, the huge cactus slips out of the pot. Dirt spilling onto the floor, a mini landslide.
“But I never said that, I didn’t,” she says.
Her frightened voice. I look at her, sitting there on the floor with her legs drawn up underneath her. What the fuck is she talking about, what did she never say? I stare at her. I put my hand on the kitchen counter, I’m not too steady on my feet, have to hold onto the kitchen counter. The kitchen counter? Are we in the kitchen?
“And I don’t know how you can accuse me of something like that anyway,” she says.
Her distraught voice. But what have I accused her of? I must have accused her of something. I look at her, give it a second. Don’t say anything. Just let her talk now. Let her go on talking for a bit and maybe I’ll figure out what we’re talking about. I prop myself up against the kitchen counter. We’re in the kitchen and I’m propped up against the kitchen counter. And the fluorescent tube over the sink is about to go out again, that buzzing sound, it’s making this kind of low hum and it’s flickering. I pull one of the kitchen chairs over. I’m in the kitchen. My head’s spinning. I shut my eyes, open them again. And the fluorescent tube is on the blink.
“I saw it with my own eyes,” I say.
Mumble something about having seen something. I look at Mona. And Mona eyes me fearfully. Her mouth half open. Big tearful eyes, she shakes her head.
“What did you see?” she asks, staring at me, waiting for me to answer. But I don’t answer, don’t know what it was I saw. I gaze at the floor and shake my head. Run my hand through my hair. Heave a big sigh. Don’t say anything. I’m so fucking drunk. And tired. I shut my eyes and open them again. And the fluorescent tube is on the blink, fluorescent tube flickering, light flashing on and off. Shut my eyes, open my eyes, shut them again …
And my hands are under her armpits. Her body’s limp, but easy to lift. She’s so thin and light, hardly an ounce of fat on her. I haul her up onto her feet, draw her close. Stand there holding her. Unsteady on my feet. Sway slightly, bump into the fridge, sound of a fridge magnet hitting the floor right after. I’m so fucking dizzy, unsteady.
“Sorry,” I say. Shake her, gently. And she cries and cries. Tears on my shoulder, my shoulder’s getting wet. And blood on my upper arm and my vest. “C’mon, let’s go to bed,” I say.
… open my eyes and gaze up at the lamp on the bedroom ceiling. Flies buzzing round the lamp. Buzz, buzz, buzz. Then I hear the clatter of the mailbox lid. Is it that late? Must be the middle of the day if the mail is here. I lie for a moment. And suddenly the whole of the night before flashes into my mind. It’s like seeing the whole thing in a huge painting. Me hitting her. Pulling her up by her hair. Roaring in her face. See the whole thing at once. I lie for a moment, then I flip over onto my side. And there’s Mona. She’s awake. Lying very still and crying. There’s this cold sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach the moment I lay eyes on her. Her purple cheek. The swollen lip and the dried blood, almost black blood. I don’t take my eyes off her. Swallow. And the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach grows stronger and stronger. My fist. Right in her face. I see it so clearly and my stomach churns. Nausea stirring. Lying there like a cold worm in my belly, writhing.
Silence.
“I’m so sorry.”
My voice low. Regret and confusion in my voice, sincere regret. I regret it with every bit of me, an aching, tearing feeling of regret. I look at her and wait. Swallow. Open my mouth again. I’m about to tell her I love her, but I stop myself. I love her so much, but it would sound like a lie to say that only hours after I’ve hit her. I hit her again, knocked her flat on her back and pulled her up by her hair, then roared in her face. How rotten can you be? How low can you get? I sicken myself. What sort of a fucking man beats his girlfriend to a goddamn pulp. How can he even call himself a man. It’s so fucking cowardly. I hate myself for it.
But that’s it, it’s over. Even if she forgives me, it’s over. It has to be. It’s time I took responsibility. If she doesn’t end it, I’ll have to do it. It’s the only right thing to do. Because if we stay together I’m not sure I can stop myself from hitting her again. I didn’t think I’d ever hit her again, but I did, and it’ll happen again. I can’t go on kidding myself. Once I’ve had a drink I can’t control myself. Or when I start on the hard stuff anyway. There’s this beast that comes out in me when I hit the hard stuff. I can’t stop it. Booze is bad news for me and if I really love her I have to end it. She deserves somebody better than me.
I shut my eyes. I lie there, checking to see whether I really mean this. Am I going to leave her, or is this just something I’m saying to make me feel a bit better about myself after what I’ve done. If I were able to take responsibility and leave her that would be a redeeming feature, and maybe it’s just something I’m crediting myself with just to be able to live with myself at all. I don’t know. I open my eyes again. Look up at the lamp on the ceiling, flies buzzing around the lamp, knocking against the plastic again and again. I put a hand up to my brow as I turn my face to Mona. Look at her. Her thin, penciled eyebrows, eyebrows she has spent time getting just right. And then the mark I’ve made just under her eye, the swollen, purplish-blue cheek and the cracked lips. Dear Mona. She loves me, she’s always so sweet and loving and yet I go and do this to her. Hit her. I lie for a moment then I take a deep breath. Kind of gathering myself. Summoning up strength. Because this really isn’t on. I have to take responsibility and leave her. It’s the only right thing to do and I have to be strong enough to do it. Not just talk about it, actually do it. I look at her. I’m about to say that she deserves somebody better than me, and that it’d be better if I moved out, but I don’t. I can’t say that. Because that’s what I’ve always said after incidents like this, and it’s never been anything but rotten self-pity. Something I’ve said to get her to feel so
rry for me and forgive me. She always feels sorry for me when I start to blame myself. Always starts listing all my good points. But I’m not going to do that this time. I have to be strong, have to be better than that. Have to spare her my self-pity and all my excuses. Spare her my promises. My begging and pleading and my tears. I’ve just got to go. I’ve got to take responsibility and leave her now.
“If you leave the door unlocked, I can pick up my things tomorrow while you’re at work,” I say.
I hear what I’m saying. I feel the fear inside me as I say it. Feel the regret hit me. Because I need her. Can’t do without her. I don’t know what’ll happen to me if I lose her. I’m going to be in deep shit. That’s for sure. I’ll go right off the rails. I lie for a second and there’s silence in the room. I look at her. And she’s just lying there crying. Tears rolling down her nose. She doesn’t say anything. And the fear grows inside me. I find myself wishing she’d try to persuade me to stay. I should take responsibility and leave her now. I should get up and go without another word. I know I should. But I don’t, I can’t. I need her, so now she’s got to talk me into staying, now she’s got to tell me she loves me. But she doesn’t. She just lies there crying. She also thinks it would better if I moved out and she’s doing nothing to stop me. Well, I can’t blame her. It’s a wonder she’s put up with me as long as she has. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. I love her and it hurts so much to lose her. A second, and then I feel the tears come. Feel them welling up in my throat. I swallow. Clear my throat. Because I’m not going to cry. No fucking way. I’m not going to give her any reason to feel sorry for me, not this time. I’ve got to be above that. It’s her one should feel sorry for, not me. I’ve always known it, but this time I’ve got to do what has to be done. I’ve got to get up and go now. I push back the duvet and swing my legs out of bed. Stand up. And my head spins. I must still be a bit drunk. I stagger as I walk over to the wardrobe. Open the wardrobe door. I’ll just get some clothes, take a shower and then I’m out of here. Don’t know where I’ll go, but I have to go. It’s the only right thing to do, and for once I’m going to do the right thing. It feels kind of good. It hurts to go, I love Mona and I don’t want to leave her, but it feels kind of good to do the right thing. To know that I can, that I’m strong enough. I sling my clothes over my arm and walk out. No turning back now, just walk out of the bedroom and into the shower.
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