Out of the Darkness

She is in the bathroom with both hands on the edge of the sink. Leaning forward, she stares at her reflection. Numb.

Why do people call it a black eye? It’s much more of an eggplant purple with splotches of red and yellow. Like a waning sunset of pain and regret.

The faucet dispenses a steady drip drip of water. Undetected.

Her gaze moves down to her neck. Similar hues of purple. She slowly picks up her hand and gently glides her fingers across her collar bone. 

Images flash. Him. Stumbling through the front door at 1am, yelling at her for god knows what. Him. Striding across the room in three big steps, pulling back that brick of a fist and slamming it into her face. Him. Picking her up by the neck, cursing into her ear, the pungent smell of rail whisky stinging her nostrils. Him. Crying in the morning. Apologizing. Making more promises destined to be broken. 

She takes in her reflection. Like one attempting to find meaning in an abstract work of art. Trying to attain that elusive understanding that apparently everyone else can appreciate but you. Failing.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. The oxygen cascading into her lungs generates a sense of stability. As she exhales the numbness slowly recedes from her body. She opens her eyes, takes one last look at the woman in the cracked mirror in front of her and leaves the bathroom.

She crosses the bedroom, expertly avoiding the shards of broken lamp on the floor, and flings open the curtain. Rays of sunlight pour through the window, feeding her soul. The ease with which the dark, musty room is permeated by warmth fills her with the promise of opportunity and redemption.

She walks out of the bedroom and into the living room, then stands there looking around. Remembering. First last night, but then a different life of hers. In the kitchen she sees him, smiling at her while he cooks them a steak dinner. In the rocking chair, she sees him, playing the guitar and serenading her with a song he wrote. On the sofa she sees him, making love to her with a passion and tenderness that seem like ancient history now.

She always thought that man was still present somewhere. Going through a period of hibernation somewhere deep in his cavernous heart, to return from his slumber more vibrant and pure than ever. But patience is not always a virtue.

With new-found clarity, she proceeds into the garage and opens the metal doors of his storage cabinet. Scanning it quickly, she finds the rusted shovel hanging on the side. Bingo. With the shovel in hand she walks to the lock box in the corner and lines up the blade. 1, 2, she lifts the shovel and brings it crashing down. A piercing clang rings against the garage walls, but the lock remains intact. She tries again. Lift, clang. Nothing. Lift, clang, lift, clang. Beads of sweat are sliding down her neck. Desperation takes hold, she grips the shovel tightly with both hands, knuckles white. She lifts the shovel high above her head and brings it crashing down, letting out a terrible scream soaked in hurt. The lock pops off with a triumphant clatter.

She stands there breathing heavily, a shadow of a smile dances on the corner of her lips. Fleetingly. She throws the shovel to the ground with a thunk and swings open the lock box door. There it is. His precious 12 gauge, shining like a brand new car. She feels it emitting it’s own magnetic field. Drawing her towards it. She glances at the broken lock lying on the ground in the corner, feeling a sense of sorrow as if watching an old and loyal friend drive away for good. She lost count of how many times that lock saved her life. When his inebriation was too much of an obstacle to overcome its numerical defenses.

Carefully she takes the gun down. It’s heavier than she was expecting and ice cold. Holding the gun across her chest she walks back into the house. She places the gun gently on the coffee table and positions herself behind the chair. With both hands she pushes, scraping it across the tarnished oak wood floor, stopping just 10 feet away from the front door. She wipes the sweat off her forehead.

She crosses over to the kitchen and opens a drawer, fishing out a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter. She taps one out, lights it and inhales deeply, holding her breath for 1... 2... 3 seconds. She slowly exhales, releasing all the smoke in her lungs and with it, all the pain she has suffered, all the fear she has endured, all the guilt she has borne. She watches the smoke drifting up to the ceiling light, weightlessly gliding like wisps of clouds on a still summer day. Ever so slowly, that mixture of smoke, pain, fear, and guilt begins to dissipate. She once read that the smoke from cigarettes never actually goes away, but instead leaves behind a permanent residue that sticks to surfaces, penetrating deep into materials in your home. How very fitting. While she never intends to experience any of that hurt ever again, it will always be a part of this home. Blotted across walls, folded into blankets, stained in the carpet. Lingering. As long as it is never in her. Never again.

She looks out the window. It’s starting to get dark. The microwave clock reads 6:23. He should be getting home in just over half an hour. Probably time to get ready. She takes one final pull on the cigarette and throws it into the sink. She strides over to the table and picks up the gun. Though certainly not a gun expert, she has enough basic understanding to know that the gun is loaded, that the safety is off, and that pulling the trigger will release bullets faster than the speed of sound. Guess her dad was good for something after all. Before he left at least.

With the gun in hand she steps over to chair and sits down. Leaning her right elbow on the armrest she practices her aim. Left eye closed, her right eye looks directly down the barrel, staring unblinkingly at the eyehole in the middle of the door. Pow, she whispers to herself, her finger caressing the trigger.

Before she even sits back up, the unmistakable puttering of his run-down Ford Mustang slides down the street and comes to a stop right in front of their garage. He’s early. 

The engine is cut. A door opens and then slams shut. She can hear steady footsteps come around the front. He must be sober. Good. She wants him to fully comprehend. She bends back over the gun, eye lined up, looking down the barrel, finger on the trigger. She licks her bone-dry lips. Ready. The pair of feet hop up the two front steps and stop in front of the door. She can see the shadows of his legs through the small gap at the bottom.

The keys rattle.

The lock clicks open.

The doorknob turns.