Words of Hate and Regret

Dutch’s last words to his wife were I want a divorce. His last words to his daughter were go to your room. He had never envisioned having final words to his family, but if he had, those words would never had been the ones he would’ve thought. But such was life.

It had happened suddenly, in the night. Dutch was asleep on the couch, an empty bottle of whiskey on the ground by his side, it’s amber insides stained on the carpet. Dutch and his wife had gotten into another nasty argument, the third one this week, and she had banished him to the couch, which was becoming more familiar than his bed. He had passed out after a numbing number of shots. Dutch noticed how quickly he had become accustomed to the kick of the whiskey, and how each night, it took a little bit more of it until he was comfortably drunk.

The whiskey was what caused it. If he hadn’t of taken that one shot, those two shots, those many shots before his daughter’s play, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten kicked out of it during his daughter’s big part.

You see, Dutch was just… supportive, that’s all. When his daughter stepped up to the front of the stage and began reciting her lines, Dutch couldn’t contain his pride. Pride. Dutch hollered his praise and boasted to the people around him. His wife tried to stop him, to pull him back to his seat, but it was too late. The damage was already done.

The quiet auditorium did not share his enthusiasm. And when he turned to see why his daughter stopped reciting her lines, he was met with a sobering sight. The reddening of her humiliated cheeks, the look of absolute embarrassment… shame… across her face. She ran off the stage in tears. That was what Dutch remembered. And that, along with a drove of other things just like it, was what he longed to forget.

It was only worse when he got home. The car ride was bad enough, his wife gripping the wheel so tight her knuckles were white, her foot pressed harshly against the gas pedal. They were silent the entire way. All Dutch heard was the wind outside the car and the occasional sniffle from his daughter. Dutch rested his head against the window and tried not to puke as he watched the passing cars, the summer’s sun bright against his eyes.

Go to your room, Dutch had told his daughter.

He sat down on the couch and listened to the stomping feet of his daughter as she climbed the stairs and slammed her bedroom door behind her. Then he prepared for the storm. And from the look on his wife’s face, it would be a big one. The last one.

Dutch’s wife yelled at him until her face turned red. Dutch caught glimpses of what she said, words of hate and regret, but mostly he was just in a daze. His head ached as if something, the whiskey, perhaps, was eating it from the inside out, and his wife’s screams only nauseated him more. He was becoming annoyed by her loudness. He had to make it stop.

“What were you even thinking, Dutch? Drinking before your daughter’s play?! That is a new low, for you, Dutch! Did you see how Lucy was crying? Do you even care?! Sometimes I just—”

I want a divorce, Dutch heard himself say.

“…What?” his wife said, her face falling from anguish to shock.

You heard me; I want a divorce.

“No, no you don’t. You’re drunk… you don’t mean it… Tell me you don’t mean it, Dutch…”

If that’s what it takes to get you to shut up, then yeah, I want a divorce.

His wife crept closer to him, tears welling up in her eyes. She stood in front of him, looking down into his eyes as he looked up at hers, her hands on his cheeks. “Look me in the eyes… and tell me you don’t love me, Dutch Jackson. Tell me you want to throw away all we have… just so you can get drunk every night. Tell me you don’t love me… and I’ll believe you.”

Dutch looked up into her pleading eyes. … I don’t love you.

She slowly removed her hands from his cheeks and backed away from him, tears streaming down her face. Dutch, even through his drunken daze, could see the heartbreak in her eyes. “Stay out here tonight. Think hard about what you’ve said… I want you out tomorrow.” And with that, she slowly departed and trudged up the stairs.

I didn’t mean it, Dutch tried to say in a moment of clarity. But it was too late. Dutch listened with heartache as his wife closed their bedroom. The sound of the lock clicking behind her drove a dagger into his heart.

Dutch poured the drinks with a heavy hand that night. He cracked out a new bottle and began to wash it away. He heard the sounds of crying from upstairs. He didn’t know if it was his daughter of his wife. He didn’t want to find out. Dutch continued to knock them back until he blacked out. That was why he didn’t smell the smoke or hear the fire until the entire upstairs of his home was lit aflame.

It was only by luck, or God’s grace, some might say, that Dutch woke up. Several hours had gone by. It was the middle of the night. Dutch routinely reached for his bottle, but his attention was caught. At first, he thought it was a dream, a delirious hallucination, but as he felt the heat come from the fire, he knew it was real. The fire roared in front of him, and Dutch could only watch in horror as it spread and grew, becoming hotter and hotter.

Dutch staggered to his feet, and ran to the fire, because he knew what waited behind it; his wife and daughter were amongst the flames.

Annabelle! Dutch cried. Lucy! Dutch called.

But neither his wife or daughter heard him. He tried to make his way through the flames, but he could not get past the wall of fire in front of him. Dutch rushed to the kitchen and tore of his shirt, dousing it with water from the sink. He tried to beat down the flames that came from the stairwell, but they only grew, intensified.

I’m coming Annabelle! Don’t worry I’m coming! Annabelle, where are you?! Lucy?!

Dutch heard the wails of a firetruck coming closer and closer, until he knew it was just outside his house. Within a matter of moments, his door was swung open by two firefighters.

They’re up there! You’ve got to save them! Dutch pleaded to the firemen.

But they only grabbed him.

No! Save my wife! Save my daughter! Save them not me! Dutch roared.

But they dragged him to the door, away from the fire. And while Dutch kicked and screamed, he could not reach his family.

I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Annabelle! I’m sorry Lucy! I’m sorry!

But it was too late. They could not hear him.

Smoke inhalation, Dutch heard them say, was most likely what killed his wife and daughter that night. They had probably died in their sleep. They didn’t feel a thing as the smoke filled their lungs and suffocated them. Painless, they said. But Dutch knew he had caused pain enough that night, and for that, he could never forgive himself.  

I love you, Annabelle. I love you, Lucy.

Dutch whispered to himself, over and over, as he watched the firemen douse the last bits of flame from the smoldering wreckage that was once his house, his family. Those were the words Dutch wished would have been his last to his wife and daughter. But they were not. Instead, his last words to them had been ones of hate and regret. That would be a weight he would have to bear. With tears in his eyes, Dutch looked up at his house one last time. He didn’t know if it was the whiskey or the grief, but as it fell down, the ash looked like snow.