Wednesday, July 12, 2006

what I did last nite: short fic

PS: I reiterate: this is short fic. NOT ME!!!!!

I’m such a stupid, fucking bitch. He’s right. He’s always right.
For one thing, he says I shouldn’t have married him. He agrees with my mom and my friends, on that point. Well – my ex-friends. No one comes around, any more.
“I would never let a man do that to me,” my best friend said. “And he treats us like shit. He hates women. You just let him. Whatever. I guess some women are into that – or they think it’s worth it to have a man. But I’m not dealing with his bullshit. It’s like – you chose him over all the rest of us. Even your kid.”
I wouldn’t have any friends at all if all his buds weren’t over here, drinking and doing Christ knows what in the can. They say they’re my friends, too. Especially when they need me to run out for beer. Even if I weren’t the only one with money, I’d still be the only one with a legal driver’s license. Popular me.
So I know he is right. I’m a stupid, fucking bitch. I have no class. I’d do anything to get some man to take care of me. Just like his mom – I’ll put up with any sort of shit. Yes – even in front of my kid.
“You know I have a drinking problem,” he said – peering over the roses with his teary, blue eyes. “You know my Dad treated us like shit. Mom just let him. Now I’m fucked up for life.”
Last nite, I did it again. I got twenty-seven stitches in my hand. I don’t know why I let him treat me this way.
Of course, he didn’t mean it. I don’t mean to sound like a bitch. He was drunk and he just flipped out. Again.
He broke a mop handle over his knee. I was the one who tried to grab it from him. I didn’t know what he was planning, see?
The doctor said he’d never put that many stitches in a hand, before. He took pictures for some paper he was doing. Then he patted me on the back and said, “some life, huh? You take care.”
I saw the look of pity in his face – the look of disgust. “This isn’t me,” I wanted to say. “This isn’t him. It isn’t us. You don’t understand. I just messed up.”
I didn’t say so out loud, of course. I’m too much of a fuck up. I just sat there like a deer in the headlights – dumb as a post. Then child welfare showed up.
The nurse had called the cops and child protective on us. When I drove to the ER, my car and my baby were covered with blood. It wasn’t like the baby was hurt, or anything. And I never would have driven if I didn’t think that I could do it, well.
The child welfare lady is “calling back.” She says I should get a restraining order and have my husband thrown out of the house.
“Failure to protect falls under neglect,” she said. She was scowling at me and I could hear the stuff that was in her head, even though it never came out.
“Stupid, fucking bitch. What kind of mother are you?”
I know exactly what she was thinking. I was thinking it, too.
I filled out the restraining order, but I didn’t take it to court. It looked so scary in my hand. My good hand, obviously.
What kind of bitch was I? Should I kick him when he was down? Why get him in all this trouble because he has a drinking problem, he was abused as a kid, and now we had this stupid mistake with the mop handle?
No way. No restraining order bullshit, from me. I’m not some Springer cliché. I may be a fuck up, but I’m not mean. I’m not out to ruin his life.
He didn’t mean it, after all. I was the one to reach out my hand. The welfare lady was just freaked because of all the blood. That’s all.
But the truth is that it never would have gone through the fleshy part of my hand if I hadn’t interfered. Stupid, fucking bitch. Worthless cunt. You did it again.
It was all the way through – like in the pictures of Jesus. It never would have happened if I hadn’t reached out my hand.
I’m such a stupid, fucking bitch. He’s right. He’s always right. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t reached out my hand.
*To give help, get help, or get info, check out the national coalition against domestic violence at

1 comment:

CrimsonCrow said...

how does one spell: giant-overwhelmed-my-heart-hurts sigh?