Scrambled Eggs

He lounged on the sofa, staring at his screen as I raced about preparing our breakfast.  My hands shook, as I walked to the table, causing the egg to wobble a little. 

“It’s ready.” He tore his eyes away from the screen and fixed them on me.

“Let’s hope they’re better than last time.” The edges of his tone cut right though me. 

 Grabbing up the plate he collapsed back into his well-worn spot on the sofa.

“I’m sure they are.” I try to fill my voice with as much lightness as possible. My mind went numb, The deed had been done, there was no going back now. I rinsed out the pan and poured in my eggs. This is it. It’s about to happen. I sneak a look at him.. 

He is jamming the toast into his mouth. Entranced in whatever is on the screen he laughs, bits of toast, egg and butter catapult towards me, stop midair and drop on to the floor. A quick wipe with his arm smears egg across his chin. 

This was the guy I had chosen to marry twenty years ago, why? Sure he had been good looking then and not quite this disgusting. It hadn't been until the birth of our first child, Alex, that his true colours started to show. He coughs.

“Hey, what did you do to these? They taste funny.” I shrug, lift my fork to my mouth and take a bite.

“Taste’s fine to me.”

“Are you calling me a liar.” His cold, black eyes fasten on me and his forehead puckers.

“No, of course not. Maybe my taste buds aren’t working today.” There is no point in covering, not today but it’s a force of habit. His anger terrifies me. 

“Give me yours then.”

“But then I won’t have any.”

“Do I look like I care, cook yourself some more.” 

I slip my eggs off my plate and on to his, Looks like I’ll have to settle for eating toast. There are no more eggs but it’s not worth the mention. This morning it doesn’t matter at all though, the greatest disappointment is that he might not eat all of his eggs. If he doesn’t, it won’t work. Then I’ll have to deal with him all day. I eat my toast with one hand under the table, fingers crossed.

“Here,” his plate is hanging up in the air. Obediently I jump up to take it off him, my heart skips as I see all the egg is gone. Now, how long do I need to wait. 

I am washing the dishes when I hear the first moan. I turn round to ask him if he’s ok to find him scrunched up in a ball.  I freeze, unsure of what to do now. I go to move towards him when he jumps up and races towards the bathroom almost knocking me off my feet in the process. I go back to the dishes, unable to wipe the smile off my face.

The night I first hatched the plan he had come home drunk, as usual. I was in bed asleep, his dinner cold in the fridge. I heard  the car as it turned into the driveway and my heart sunk. There would be little sleeping now. After a few minutes of stumbling around he made it into the bedroom and flicked on the light. As the light pierced the room I whipped the duvet over my head. 

“I’m hungry, ” he bellowed from the doorway.

“There’s food in the fridge.”

“It’s cold, warm it up for me.” 

“NOW WOMAN,” his irritation bouncing off the walls. The bed sunk at the end as he sat to take off his boots. Shaking sleep from my head, I dragged myself up, wrapped my dressing gown around me tightly to try and account for the extreme shift in temperature.

Mesmerized by the food spinning in the microwave, I was caught in the place between sleep and awake. My brain spinning along with the plate. Twelve hours ago this food had been super good but now the smell of it made me feel nauseous. I had been disappointed but not surprised when he hadn’t shown up for dinner. It was becoming a more regular occurrence. That and the beatings. Why did I let this happen to me? If this was happening to a friend I would tell her to get out of the situation. But I am too much of a chicken to do anything.

I carried the scorching hot plate, in a tea towel, back to the bedroom. And there he was in all his glory, head back snoring loudly. I switched off the light and crept back to the kitchen. Fully awake now I spy the laptop resting on the table. Might as well catch up some news while i have a coffee. 

Coffee in hand I start scrolling through my news feed. Then it jumps out at me. A bright yellow box. Free and Easy it says, I’ve seen it a million times but not at this moment. This moment something inside me stirs. An idea wedges itself into my mind. A laxative. Why had I never thought of if before.  I could put one or two in his food. He’d never know, most of time he came home late he’d been out drunk. Hell, anyone could have spiked his drink anyway. A laxative or two would keep him occupied so I could sleep rather than get knocked around the walls.

Four days later,  I got my chance. Watching his dinner cool as I ate mine alone my thoughts caught on to the possibility that I could do this. Did I dare? If I did, he would be preoccupied meaning no yelling or hitting me. But then what says he found out? What says he found the bottle of laxatives I had stashed away in my tampon bag?  Really, that was pretty unlikely. It was time to do something, I had to do something. I didn’t have the strength to leave him but this, this I could do. 

That evening  I pulled out my mortar and pestle, and placed two small brown pills in the bottom. I lifted the cool pestle in the air and brought it down again and again on the pills. Pounding them until the pills were no longer, I took the fine powder and tipped it into a small bag, which I hid away. Now I was ready.

In the end he made it super easy for me. All night I had lain in bed in fitful sleep, at times eager for him to come home and at times worried I wouldn't’ be able to  pull it off. The click of a door roused me. My heart pounded so loudly I couldn’t hear his footsteps at first. The alarm clock said 7:30. Confused, I lifted my head. 7:30 in the morning? He had never stayed out all night before. Blood raced through my veins in time with my heart beat, my mind moving to the rhythm. Suddenly soaked in sweat I threw back the duvet and jumped out of bed.

He looked up from his phone as I entered the kitchen.

“Good, I was wondering when breakfast was.”

“Where have you been?”

“Just out with mates. You wanna give me a hard time about it?” I bit my tongue, not daring myself to speak. My head was still thumping. I shook it trying to break the rhythm.

“Good,” he said. “I’d have a problem with that.” My hands balled tighter into a fist, the muscles in my back tightened. Heat gargled in my stomach preparing to erupt. There was no point in yelling at him, it would only make him angry. My plan was so much better.

I slipped into the bathroom, threw water on my face and looked myself in the eye.

“You got this girl. Let’s do it.” I whispered.

I pulled the small bag of fine powder out of the drawer and stashed it in my dressing gown pocket. He was already yelling at me to hurry up so I flushed the toilet and left.

Three bright yellow yolks stared up at me innocently. I stabbed one with a fork and then bet them all. Milk slipped in around the mangled yolks, dampening their colour. I stirred until the mixture was a creamy mass. Then I put in the powder. The mixture accepted it, it became one. A sprinkle of salt, paper and garlic to disguise the taste and it was done.

The eggs hit the hot pan and sizzled. A couple of minutes later, they had transformed info a solid mass. I moved a fork erratically through, messing up any sense of order, smoothing it all out. With a clunk the toast jumped up. This was it.