Attack of the Hearts

ATTACK OF THE HEARTS

by Del Gibson

HARRY

The sun arrives upon the horizon in a beautiful display of magenta, orange, and golds. You stand on the balcony against the backdrop of the glorious sky, with a hot coffee in hand, watching as a soft drizzle of rain falls from the sky. This is how you usually spend your early mornings; reflecting. Raindrops splatter your clothes. Your short curly jet-black hair, now wet and dripping down your body as the drizzle turns to heavy rain. You are casually dressed for the journey ahead, driving from Auckland to Wellington for work.

Your mind drifts…you are handsome, tall, tanned, with an exceptionally athletic physique. You still have a whole head of hair, considering your fortieth birthday is only a few weeks away; you aren’t doing too bad. You know you are attractive to the ladies, with your charm and flirtatious nature. You still look youthful and charismatic, like your father did at your age. You breathe in deep and the bitter-cold morning refreshes your mind, as you wonder what this new day will bring.

You have a long drive ahead, but that doesn’t matter to you, for you have a new purpose, something wonderful to think about; Charlotte Hayes. Charlotte, with the legs up to her neck and the body of a model. Long blonde hair, always tied up seductively, floating about her stunning face. She is a dream come true, every man at works wet dream. Feeling your manhood grow hard, you stop those delicious thoughts and will yourself to re-join your family, inside.

So, you venture back inside to say goodbye to your wife of three years, Maddie, who is in a rush as she packs Harry Juniors day-care bag. She is late for work. You give her a quick peck on her cheek; she smells of strawberries and coconuts. A pat on the top of your son’s head. No kisses or hugs, nor endearments or I love you.

“I’ll call you later honey when I get to the hotel. It should only take me eight-hours to get there,” you yell out slamming the front door behind you.

You run to your car, put your travel-bag on the passenger seat and back out of the driveway, making your way to State Highway 1. A sudden feeling of apprehension gathers in the corner of your mind, but you push it aside, brushing it off like dust-motes floating in a sunny room. You had already put your cellphone to silent mode, as you tend to drive and talk or text at the same time. Even though you are well aware of the dangers and the nagging from Maddie castigating you for your carelessness, but sometimes you can’t help yourself. You are impulsive at times, disregarding consequences. You tuck your cellphone into the side pocket of the travel-bag.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Your job as an insurance broker, means you are often contracted to travel around the country – sometimes for days at a time. Mostly you drive, you prefer to, even though you can afford to fly business class. The hours of alone time – nothing but the road and your thoughts. You think about Charlotte Hayes and that forbidden kiss. It was two weeks ago – so unexpected and delicious. It just happened; you reassure yourself. One minute there you both were, packing up from a presentation in the meeting room, it was getting dark outside the windows, then the next minute you were all over each other. You could have stopped it, but being the type of man that you are, the temptation was too great, the opportunity was too inviting. The sensations still tingle in your mind when you think of it, down into your groin.

It’s been an emotional rollercoaster ride, each time you remember Charlotte’s soft pink lips, her tongue, curious and excited inside your mouth. Her smell, her taste, her soft body as it rubbed against yours as you fondled each other on the conference room table. You knew you had gone too far when you exploded in your pants. Mortified, you gently pushed her away – breathed in her sweet scent one last time and turned away from your embarrassment and shame. There you were in the loo, disposing of the evidence. Meanwhile your wife and baby were waiting at home for you to finish your meeting. On your way home that night, you prayed to a god you don’t believe in to not to be caught out for what you had just done.

If only it were that simple.

Later that night when Harry got the call, he was masturbating on top of the blankets in his pokey little hotel room, imagining Charlotte…then his cell phone vibrates and hums for his attention. Still in a daze of rapture, he fumbles for the lamp switch beside the bed. His hand is slick and wet as he picks up his phone from the side table, nearly dropping it. He curses himself for his stupidity. Idiot! He should have switched it off – grumbling through his orgasmic fog, smack bang into reality, he realises he forgot to call Maddie. It must be her calling. Private caller: it’s not Maddie.

He thinks it is Charlotte wanting sexual conversations, like she does sometimes, late at night. Hiding away in his den, while his family sleep and he drinks his life into oblivion; pretending he isn’t an unfaithful bastard. He isn’t prepared for what happens next. Harry answers his phone.

“Hello.”

“Hello, is this Mr. Harry Watkins?”

“Yes, who is this? Do you know what time it is?”

The digital clock beside the bed says it is 12:30 a.m.

“Sorry to call so late Mr. Watkins. This is Detective Morgan from the Auckland Central Police. I am afraid I have some very bad news.”

Harry sits up as worry and anxiety crawl over his body. Riddled with guilt – he snaps out of his soggy fugue and asks what’s happened?

“There’s been an accident. Your wife Madeline Watkins and your son were involved in a car crash on the motorway and were air-lifted to Middlemore Hospital this afternoon. I’m sorry to say – it’s not looking good. I have been trying to call you for hours. Your wife was in a coma…are you still there Mr. Watkins?”

After half a minute of pregnant pause, he manages to reply.

“Yes, I am here. I just can’t believe this has happened.”

He wants to be sick. He wants to die. The revulsion for himself is overwhelming.

You hang up the phone, slide under the covers and release your throbbing pain. Great giant sobs rack your body. Spasms take over you, they send you crashing into a dark ravine – an indescribable abyss of agony. As you scream into the pillow, you tell yourself it’s all your fault. You were in bed, masturbating over another woman! Shameful, indecent! All the while, your wife is in a coma and you haven’t been told anything about Harry Jr. After you hastily repack your travel bag and leave the hotel, you drive the car to Wellington Airport, leaving it in the long stay carpark. You have three-hours to wait for the next flight back to Auckland. You wonder if you’ll get to them in time?

MADISON

God, I feel sick and cold, shivers of pain stab me everywhere, all over my broken body. I don’t know where they have taken Harry Jr. my sweet baby boy. The doctor told me my husband is on his way from Wellington, but he doesn’t know when he will arrive. Suddenly, the room is too bright, and there is too much noise. I lay staring at the ceiling, attached to machines and monitors going crazy. The beeping is monotonous and annoying. I’m trying to remember something important, but I seem to be drifting in and out of a black fog, threatening to drag me under. My head aches and half of me feels funny – different. Then like a tsunami, the memories flood my mind…

I had gotten HJ ready for day-care, made his lunch; a half-ripe banana, chocolate chip cookies, his favourite at the moment, and a ham and cheese sandwich. I hastily stuffed his items into his bag, spare clothes, lunchbox, and a special toy for show-and-tell. While I was getting his bag ready, HJ was playing with his favourite toy, a trainset he received from grandpa for his third birthday. His curly jet-black hair, so much like his father’s was sticking up from his crown at odd angles, but he looked like a little cherub – his big brown eyes, and long eye-lashes – so adorable and precious. I gathered him up in my arms and with bags slung about my shoulders, we rushed to the car through the rain. It was a grey wet start to the day.

I dropped HJ off at day-care and went to work at the local restaurant; where I manage the office. I got through the day and at lunch break I decided to eat at home, to get away from work for an hour or so. I arrived home and made a tuna and cheese sandwich. I put it on a plate, then went to the fridge for the carton of freshly squeezed orange juice, and as I shut the fridge, the doorbell chimed. I put the juice on the counter, crossed the room to the front door and opened it. Expecting it to be a door knocking salesman, I was surprised by a courier driver, holding a bunch of red roses. I remember how my heart skipped a beat, thinking Harry had remembered our wedding anniversary! That’ll be a first, I muttered under my breath. He’s a whole week early. I grabbed the roses and the card from the courier, and in my excitement, I forgot to thank him – slamming the door in his face. The card read:  

Dearest Harry,

You are truly amazing.

My body pines for your touch.

My heart aches for your love.

You have taken my heart with you.

See you in Wellington, my lover.

Love C.H xxx

I fell to my knees, screaming. I landed hard and in pain – it hurt like hell. Is Harry having an affair? He would never do that to us, would he? But I know who C.H is, Charlotte the harlot, Hayes, who is the daughter of Harry’s boss Mackey. I have always been secretly envious of her long blonde hair, designer clothes and large blue-eyes. She draws attention to herself, in her immaculate tightly fitted suits revealing ample cleavage. Thinking about her and Harry together felt like a blow to the chest.

Mad as hell I threw the card to the floor and marched straight into Harry’s office, to his desk. I searched through his bottom draw, where he keeps his work documents, looking for evidence. I found what I’d been looking for at the bottom of the draw beneath the paperwork. There were emails to and from Charlotte, little post-it-notes stuck to work contracts, with love hearts and words of desire I didn’t want to read. A waft of perfume drifted off the pages. Bile rose to my throat, I swallowed it down, screwed up the papers and flung them to the floor. Rage owned me now.

It rips your soul apart and you feel helpless to the pain, the surreal shock, then denial – leaving behind an empty vessel of your former-self. This moment in time, the after effect of losing control – you go into automation mode. You know the affair will end your marriage, there is no other option. You deserve better than that. You would never stay with an unfaithful husband. You storm back into the kitchen and in your angry state, you throw your lunch in the bin, toss the orange juice across the room, and watch as it explodes down the wall. You step on the roses and card, grab your keys and head for the car.

You don’t go back to work, like you should. Instead, you collect HJ from day-care earlier than expected. You run with him back to the car, trying to keep you both dry – under your black umbrella, under your own black cloud of misery and pain. You have no idea that soon your world will be shattered, torn apart. You are anxious and confused, driving way too fast, the rain is torrential and heavy balls of hail pound the car; sounding like bullets.

In the last sixty seconds before your bones are shattered and your blood loss too great, and before they take you and your baby in the air-ambulance with HJ no longer breathing, and before the coma drags you under – you think about all of this as the memories bombard you. You think about how much you hate your husband for his betrayal, and how much you have loved him, given him everything. In your mind you visualise the affair going on for months, but you aren’t to know it has barely been two weeks. It all started with one little white lie. As you think about all of this, you hear the paramedics trying desperately to revive HJ in the Westpac Trust Helicopter. Your heart breaks harder now as you realise, if he dies you will have nothing left to live for. Blackness, as the coma engulfs you – promises to end your agonising pain.

HARRY

Harry arrives at the hospital, but he is too late – Maddie and Harry Jr. have both passed away. The doctor takes Harry aside, and together they enter his office. Harry is offered a hot beverage or water, but he declines both.

“What happened?” he trembles in shock.

Too confused to comprehend the situation, the totality of it all.

“Your son passed away soon after arriving at the hospital, we suspect internal bleeding and a cardiac arrest. Your wife fell into a coma on the way here, she passed away two hours ago. We believe she also had a heart-attack.” Harry crumples to his knees. “We couldn’t revive them. I am truly sorry for your loss. A post-mortem will be conducted…are you ok? You look pale,” the doctor says, with genuine concern crinkling his forehead.

“No. I think I’m going to be sick.”

Harry runs from the office and makes it to the bathroom across the hallway just in time to throw up in the toilet. He realises he hasn’t eaten for hours, there is hardly anything to throw up, but the convulsions are unrelenting. After gathering himself together, he leaves the bathroom and wanders off into the waiting room – though he has no idea what he is waiting for. As he sinks down into a blue plastic chair, a mass of images flash frantically through his mind...

The day he married Maddie at their local church, surrounded by family, they were immensely happy and in love. Her white lace wedding dress, complemented by her long brown hair which flowed down her back, floating gracefully in the breeze beneath her veil.

The images move on to the birth of Harry Jr. here at this hospital on the second floor. It was one of the happiest days of his life. Twelve long agonizing hours of labour for Maddie, and Harry comforted his wife, watching in awe as their baby boy, with a mass of jet-black hair, entered the world.

The images turn to diabolical scenes he would rather forget. Yesterday morning, driving to Wellington with thoughts of Charlotte bouncing around in his head. In the hotel room, where his sexual desire for her brought him pure gratification. Guilt begins to eat him alive.

You arrive home and the house looks the same but empty, without your wife and child to fill the deadened silence. You miss the soft sound of Maddie’s voice and her fussing about in the kitchen. You miss the sounds of your son, running around the house, playing with his toys – his sweet little giggle you will never hear again. This breaks you.

You go into your den for the flask you keep hidden in your top draw. That is when you see the pieces of paper strewn across the floor. You pick one up. It is screwed into a tight ball, so you smooth it out on your desk. It is an email from Charlotte, which says how much she looks forward to seeing you again. Then you make a desperate grab for the other pieces of papers. More emails. In a fit of utter rage, you despise yourself.

You crumple to the floor and scrunch the words within your fist. You pound your hands over and over, against the hard-wood floor. Tears stream from your eyes, as you make your way to the kitchen, leaving the moment blurred. With flask in hand, you take a swig and switch on the kitchen light. Then you see them, the red roses dying on the tiled floor. You see the card and pick it up with bloodied hands. It is from Charlotte, and as you read it your heart begins to fail, you try to catch your breath, unaware you will die in forty-five seconds from a massive heart-attack.

But before death takes you, you realise Maddie would have received the roses and read the card from Charlotte. You are filled with dark desolation. Your chest aches and in your final moments, you remember giving Maddie a quick kiss and your only child a quick pat on top of his head; so thoughtless and uncaring. But it is over for you now. Your heart stops and the pain intensely severe, begins the process of you dying. You try in vain to scream for help, but it’s too little, too late…three people dead from broken hearts.

THE END



Copyright © Gibson, Del 2021