I’d rock by that window, over and over, thinking about it all. Through all of the dark, boozy fights, the painful encounters, the thrusting inside of me, I’d stayed positive because I had the baby to think about. I could handle all of Richard’s antics because it didn’t matter. None of that mattered. All that was important was the baby. But now he was gone, ripped apart in a world too cruel and devious. He couldn’t be gone. No. No. No.
I’d done everything I could. I’d been an obedient wife. I’d been a dutiful servant. Why was this happening? How could this be happening to us? I sob into my child, the smell of him nothing like I’d imagined. He doesn’t smell of baby skin and milk. He doesn’t smell of hopes and dreams. Instead, he reeks of death, pungent and decaying. He smells of loss and ache and disaster. He oozes with the bitter stench of a stale, fading life snuffed out.
I stare into the face of my child for a long while, tears clouding my vision and pain assaulting my heart. When I finally glance up, I realize I’m alone in the room, the peeling paint on the walls and the stagnant, rusty smell in the room emphasizing all that’s been lost. Sharon is gone. I don’t even remember hearing her leave. I don’t know how long she’s been gone. I don’t know how long I rock my baby, his skin growing colder and stiffer to the touch. I don’t know how long I sob and plead with a God who has abandoned me. But after some time, the door to the bedroom flies open, the familiar screech startling me as the brass doorknob slams against the notch in the wall, the house rattling in response. Things are about to get so much worse.
Richard hovers in the doorway, leaning on the frame. His shirt is covered in oil and grease. I study him through tears. I’m devastated for me but also for him. He’ll never know Gideon. He’ll never know his son. Perusing him, I think he’s going to walk over to see the baby, to hold him. I consider the possibility that maybe things will be different, that we’ll grieve this loss together. Maybe this will finally bring us together.
‘Where’s Sharon?’ I ask weakly, feeling woozy from all of the sadness and trauma.
‘I’ve sent her home. I don’t need that bitch lurking around, telling me how to spend my money and what to do. We’re fine here.’ He struts across the creaky floor, and my breathing intensifies. The all-too-familiar dread sneaks in, a dark cloud over an already abysmal moment.
He stomps over to me, lurking above me in the bed as he stares down at us, the whiskey bottle in his left hand half-empty. Whiskey, not bourbon. Does it matter? Today, I don’t think so. Alcohol weighs on his breath, surrounds him like an aura of gloom, but it’s one I’ve come to know all too well. There’s a quiet moment in which Richard seems to absorb the sight of Gideon’s lifeless body. I detect a flicker of something in his eyes—a moment of sadness? Remorse? Pain? I can’t be sure. Maybe I’m only seeing what I desperately need to see.
Before I can get my hopes up, the glimmer becomes a conflagration I can certainly identify: rage.
‘You stupid bitch. You stupid, good for nothing bitch. You fucking killed the baby. You’re worthless, aren’t you? Worthless. I should’ve gotten rid of you a long time ago. You’re so lucky I kept you around. And for what? So you could kill the baby?’
The tears flow once more, and it’s hard to breath.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I tried. I’m sorry,’ I beg, rocking Gideon again, squeezing his limp body tightly. I did try, I sob into Gideon’s body, my face against his cheeks.
‘It’s dead. Why are you rocking it? You killed it. It’s fucking dead.’
He throws the bottle against the wall and the crucifix I hung there crashes to the floor among the broken remnants of the whiskey. I shudder, and Henry’s barks ring out loudly in the distance from outside the house. Richard grabs for the baby, but I squeeze Gideon closer. I can’t let him go. I can’t. I have to hold my baby. I need to hold him, to soothe him. I need to save him. I clutch to him like the lifeboat he is, my arms aching from the effort.
‘Richard, please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.’
And then, there is the familiar sound of his knuckles hitting my cheek. The pain stings, but this time, I don’t flinch. I sink deeper into Gideon, into myself, steadfast and determined in my mission to hang on. My throbbing jaw doesn’t deter me. There is a deeper agony I’ve come to know, a more extreme sense of hurt that goes well beyond the striking of his hand.
In the distance, Henry’s barks echo louder, but barking can’t fix this, even if the mastiff’s intentions are in the right place. I imagine him yanking on the rope as he often does, the tree rooting him to the spot in the dirt he calls home most of the time. Richard says Henry’s lucky he’s allowed to live at all after all of the times he’s come after him.
That’s Richard’s answer for everything. We’re lucky. So lucky. I used to think that. I used to try to appreciate the good in life, to be thankful for what God gave us. But today, I don’t feel lucky. I feel broken. I feel ruined. I feel scorned.
I sob now, tears and snot falling onto the baby I will never feed or coax to sleep. I press his tiny body to my face, inhaling a scent that just isn’t right. I wish I could change everything. I ache for nothing more than to see him take a breath. He doesn’t, though, and the next thing I know, Richard snatches the baby from me, my baby, despite my locked arms and violent grip. He is strong, after all. Always too strong.
‘Richard, what are you doing? Give me him.’ I’m hysterical now, screaming and crying as shock takes over my body. My words are grating squeals, barely decipherable. My arms stay frozen, as if Gideon’s still in my arms. But he’s not. Richard has my son, and I already feel the pain of his absence, my heart throbbing as it threatens to combust into a million pieces.
‘It’s dead, you stupid bitch. I won’t have you sitting around crying over a dead fucking baby. You killed it. This is done.’
I wipe at my tears now and stare at Richard in disbelief. He carries the baby by his back leg, and I squeal at the sight of Gideon’s sweet body swaying in the air, his head slapping against Richard’s calf, clunking off the frame of the bed. There’s no fatherly look in Richard’s eyes as he dangles our baby, no sorrow or remorse. Only anger tinged with an even scarier hint of apathy.
‘Richard, please, where are you taking him? We need to bury him. We need to get him baptized and then bury him . . . ’ I demand, struggling to get out of bed, still sore and weak from labor. I need to get up, though. The call of Gideon is stronger than any exhaustion.
Richard pauses halfway across the room.
‘You really think I’m going to waste any amount of money getting some preacher over here for a dead body? You think I’m going to go through the trouble of burying a thing who didn’t even take a breath? This thing isn’t your baby. It’s trash. And I’ll show you what we do with trash around here.’
Horror clings to my chest, paints itself in my mind. Richard’s never been a soft man, I’ve known that. But he certainly couldn’t mean what he said, right? He’s grieving too, isn’t he? I claw my way toward him, woozy and unsteady. There is still blood all over my legs, and I’m terrified I’m going to pass out. I stumble onward, clutching at the sheets, at the wall to reinforce my stance.
‘What are you doing?’ I plead, my hands shaking and my head spinning. I lean on the bed, trying to steady my unreliable legs that shriek with pain. Everything hurts and throbs—my chest, most of all.
Richard doesn’t answer, promenading out the bedroom door with Gideon. Tears dump from my eyes and blur my vision. I hear the screen door creak open and then slam shut. What is he doing? I want to chase after him, but my legs tremble and everything yelps in pain from just standing up. I trudge to the bedroom window, leaning heavily on the splintered sill as I look out toward Richard’s garage, the lights still on.
Richard stomps across the yard, past Henry, who is tied to the tree by his decaying doghouse. Henry snarls at Richard, lunging on the end of the weathered rope, but Richard doesn’t hesitate. He takes Gideon toward the tree line, an
d a hand covers my mouth. He can’t be doing this. He wouldn’t. But then, sure enough, he does the unthinkable, and I crumble to the wooden floor. I rock myself against the wall, banging my head against it. I slam my head over and over, the pain a welcome hint of what I’m feeling within.
I hope I bleed to death. I want to die. I need to join my baby. Mama always said unbaptized babies went to hell. I don’t care, though. Heaven, hell, it doesn’t matter. I want to be with Gideon. I hope I die. I hope I hemorrhage or get an infection or pass away from some complication from birth. I pray for the sweet, needed release of ceasing to exist. Of nothingness.
I just wonder if Richard finds me dead in here, will he do the same with me? Will he chuck me into the woods like a forgotten, rotting log? Will I land face down in the mud or the brush in the forest beside my baby? I’ve always known Richard was dangerous and cruel. I’ve always known he was something to fear. But what kind of monster does that? What kind of beast shows no remorse, no sadness for his own child? There is no forgiving this.
I cry myself to sleep that night on the floor of the bedroom, my cheek against the rough, splintered boards.
Gideon. My sweet Gideon.
Gone.
Chapter Two
I don’t know how many days pass—Two? Four? —between the night Gideon dies and the night I decide to get out of bed and protect my sweet child. I spend countless hours whirling in a tormented state, the physical pain churning with the untamable grief into an unbearable concoction. I remember Sharon stopping by at some point to check on me, examining me and asking questions. I remember fading in and out of sleep, nightmares stirring me awake more often than not.
I remember Richard’s stomping feet in the bedroom, a half-empty liquor bottle always close by. I vaguely recall him shoving a plate of toast at me, telling me to eat before I killed myself. He couldn’t understand or didn’t want to understand that death was the only possible reprieve.
But other than that, all I remember is slipping in and out of thoughts of Gideon, of dreams I had for him, and of the memories of his cold, rotting body in my arms. After days of crying myself to sleep, of lying in bed staring at the decrepit ceiling, I decide that there is something that must be done. Death isn’t coming, and even though I want to, I won’t take my own life. I can’t do that. I know what God does to those souls. My mind begins to form the idea that drives me out of bed, an idea that although probably not wise, is necessary. I know what I should’ve done that first night, what I should’ve done all these nights that have passed. I can’t sit around forever thinking about what needs done. Someone has to do it—and I’m the only one who can. It’s all up to me now.
I peel myself out of bed, slipping my feet into the moccasins at the edge. My legs are unsteady and I’m still dizzy, but I don’t care. It’s not too late. I can do this. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my entire life.
My hands grab at the cracking walls of the bedroom, my steps slow and unsure as I make my way through the short hallway into the kitchen. Garbage litters the counter, and it smells of whiskey and rotting food. The house is a wreck. I need to clean. I’m surprised he’s let me get away with this. I’m lucky he hasn’t said anything about the state of the house. Why hasn’t he said anything? One of life’s mysteries. The dishes need washed. The counters need cleaned. The floor needs scoured. I have so much work to do. But right now, there is a more important task to complete.
I lean on the kitchen chair, catching my breath, as I close my eyes and steady myself. I’m coming, Gideon. Mommy’s coming. I’m sorry it took so long. Why did I wait so long? I should’ve gone out that first night. I shouldn’t have let him get away with this. I can endure a lot of things, but not this.
I gather enough strength to trek to the screen door and fling it open, the familiar shriek resonating through the darkness of the yard. Fireflies blink to one another, and the warm air envelops me as I make me way over the lifting plank on the front porch. A mosquito tickles my arm, dancing about trying to suck my life out of me. I ignore it, my mind set on the mission at hand.
I gingerly creep down the front porch stairs, one at a time, until my bare feet touch the dirt path that leads behind the house. I hug the rotting siding, not worrying about splinters today as I feel my way around to the back of the small one-story I’ve called my house but not home for all the years of our marriage. Henry stirs on his rope, tail wagging at the sight of me. I look at my dog, feeling bad for abandoning him these past few days as well. I need to get him food and water. Who knows if Richard has even bothered?
The light is on in the garage, and I hear some rock music blaring. I turn my gaze to the tree line, to the spot I’m after. I need to get to him. I trudge toward the forest, tears welling at the thought of what I must do. This isn’t right. None of this is right. He should be here with me, in the rocking chair. He should be clinging to my breasts, feeding and living and breathing. He should be breathing. My breasts ache with the thought as I head forward. How different things could’ve been if he had only been breathing.
Henry’s barking disconcerts me just as I’m reaching the edge of the yard. Fireflies continue to blink.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ a voice roars, startling me and pulling me out of my mission.
I suck in air, filling my lungs as fear usurps my body. I involuntarily shudder, and I hate that I do. I need to be strong for Gideon. I need to do this. I turn to see Richard, a greasy rag in one hand and a wrench in the other. Henry snarls on his rope, stretching toward us. Richard chucks the wrench at the dog and hits him in the side. Henry squeals, pulling back and sitting nearing his doghouse, licking the spot the wrench contacted.
‘Richard, please. We need to bury him,’ I reason, my voice soft as I automatically look at the ground.
Richard stalks over to me, and my stomach plummets. I sink into myself, shriveling up as small as I can. I bow my head piously, as Richard likes. Please, God, let him understand. He has to see. He has to know, somewhere deep down, that this isn’t right. We need to make this right. He walks toward me slowly, wordlessly, and my pulse quickens. I close my eyes and flinch as I await his hand smacking against my cheek.
A tense moment passes, but there is no searing pain in my face. Richard gets close enough that his bourbon breath is hot on my cheeks. It scorches my lungs as I inhale. A formidable force that stirs fear in my already broken heart, he towers above me. I feel so small. I am so small.
‘I told you that we aren’t doing that. Did you hear me when I said that? Are you disobeying me, woman?’ he asks, his voice unnaturally quiet and soft. He lingers on every word, his spacing and enunciation dramatic and languid. I hate it when his voice is so faint. I know it’s a contradiction to the fueling fire burning inside of him. I know the anger is about to incinerate me. He’s holding it back for maximum impact, storing it for the right moment to explode. I am forever being hurt in the aftermath of his detonation.
‘Richard, I’m sorry. I am. But I can’t leave him in the forest. He’s our baby, Richard. Please. Don’t do this to our baby.’
‘How dare you think you can disobey me, you stupid bitch. I already told you. It’s not your baby. It’s dead. It’s trash. Leave it right where I put it. You hear me? And get yourself cleaned up. The house is a goddamn trash heap. Get yourself together. I’m not going to have you laying around the bedroom forever. You have your duties to tend to, you lazy bitch.’
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. My head spins, and Richard’s breath is still hot on my face. Terror threatens to seize me, but I shove it down. This isn’t a time to back down. I can’t stop now. I lift my chin, staring into Richard’s eyes with an overt defiance, something I never dare to do. For a long moment, the two of us gaze at each other, his wicked eyes appraising mine. And then I do what I know I shouldn’t. I turn from him and march toward the forest, my chin up and my eyes focused.
Before I can take three steps, though, Richard is upon me. He grabs my arm, hi
s fingers digging into my flesh. I yelp in pain, desperate for relief but more desperate to get to my goal. I struggle and yank away from him, screaming out as Henry growls and pulls on the rope.
Richard is too strong.
I am too weak.
Before I can get away, before I can fight my way to my baby, I am on the ground, my back thudding on the hard earth. A jolt of pain stuns my body. My head cracks off the ground, and the next thing I know, Richard is on top of me, his hands around my neck. He squeezes, clutches at me, and I gasp. Tighter, tighter, tighter still his hands grip me. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. My neck’s going to break. He’s finally going to snap the whole way this time.
‘Do I need to tie you out with the dog? Do I? Don’t you even think about ignoring me again, you hear? Do you hear?’ With each word, his grasp on my throat is tighter, and I start to slip away. My chest throbs and my head feels like it might just pop. The fireflies still blink in the background, and I think this might be where it ends. Richard on top of me, Henry growling, fireflies dancing around, and my baby rotting in the woods nearby. For a split second, I wonder if this would be such a bad way for my story to end. Maybe this would be merciful. Before the blackness takes complete hold, though, Richard lets go. He slaps me five or six times as I gasp and choke, my lungs aching as I suck in air.
‘Don’t even try that again,’ he shrieks in my face, his nose against my cheek, his eyes lasering into me as I pant, everything sore.
He stands up, staring at Henry. ‘You shut the fuck up, too. You’re next,’ he warns, kicking dirt at the dog before stumbling back to his garage, leaving me to stare up at the stars as I heave.
Tears fall down my cheek, but the balls of light above are a wonderous sight in the midst of the chaotic hell that is my life. How much pain can one woman endure? I don’t know if I’m strong enough anymore, Lord. I don’t know if I can carry this burden.
A Tortured Soul Page 2