Whiskey Eyes
by Sam HaiNe

He had “Ride or Die” tattooed on his neck. It was his religion.

He never kept a fifth to far from the chest. After twelve swigs he’s already pointing blame and hurling obscenities and table ornaments at a broken domestic.

You never saw it coming. Precious moments shattered and ruined across the hairline where the blood trickles. Loose belt buckles and moved furniture, the poltergeist called Step-dad won’t leave. He just lingers and stains the love seat where his Newport burns from his fingertips.

Behind the eyelashes and the blushes are blacks and blues and bright flashes of blood vessels bursting, cracked cartilage, a bruised femur bone and there's the unmade dining table.

Loretta. Loretta. You could’ve done better. You could’ve done better. You’ve been better. Yet it’s worse.

Another go around on Wallace’s spider web threading you into his entanglements and rotten fruit. He treats you like yesterday’s laundry; beaten up and folded in the dark corners behind the dresser. Hidden from the light and masqueraded behind 1950’s type restrictions. It started as a nudge then a threat then a push then punch and now hospital visits, body shots and sometimes a piece of a wooden crutch. New town, new neighbors , the same sad song and tonight’s chaos started over an F on a report card and a suspension from school. You take the hits cuz, you’re almost numb it all, you take the hits so he doesn’t reach the children’s room.

He’s slow but, severe. He breaths over you and tenses his frustrations; his failures, his shortcomings. You’ll leave him but he’ll measure your casket before you reach the door. He’s poison. His kiss is venom. His slurred apologies are cancer and his touch is death. This time isn't like the others.

He loves you then he snuffs you. He can’t live without you yet, he’s ready to take you both into the grave. You’re children are leverage. He doesn’t care about them. He uses them as insurance to never be left alone. Never be abandoned on the roadside - Never, will he be with just himself in the wilderness.

Isolation’s the killer, after all. The truth speaker; they say. The big finish and the never-ending suffering. His dying wish? He’ll burn the bridge while standing on it, just to feel the warmth. He’s a black hole. He’ll suck you inside and crush you in his gravity. Drain you of your essence. Rob you of your identity. Erase your fingerprints from anything worth value.

Tonight is different from the rest because, he’s caught a second wind and his eyes look a different shade darker.

He chases you around the kitchen and back hands you. You feel your ear pop from the blow. His fists are rough and leathery. His fingernails are filthy and cut into your arms as he tries to grab you. You run in all directions and beg him to stop. He can’t hear you. He hears the drink. The little voice in his head pushing him forward and do more and more in large gulps of malt Iblis.

He was your high school sweetheart. You’re first everything. He was the prettiest boy in school. The star of the mock trial team; member of the school band and the varsity wrestling team. He could’ve went to college but, enlisted instead. He was starry eyed and optimistic until he tore his ACL during training.

He returned home and worked for his father in the mill until, the economy tanked and his family lost everything. Now he barely leaves the house and collects disability. Dejected and with a bruised ego, little to do but hide inside a bottle and go joy riding with his friends.

It’s been two years since your family moved into this town. The last one was getting a bit too nosey for its own good. There were too many noise complaints and gossiping mouths; too many accidental falls down the stairs and just too many questions.

You’ve tried to leave but, he always finds you. You even tried to reach out to a friend but, it’s always the same thing, “If he’s that bad why’d you stay with him this long?”.

The ringing in your ears starts to die down when you see him making his way to your son’s room.

Panic hits your bones and freezes your blood. You call his name and try to distract him but, he continues. Your instincts kick in and your adrenaline pumps; you spring to your feet and try to push him, scratch him, direct his anger toward you. He elbows you and you can feel the crunch of your shattered nose. Your eyes start watering and you can see the silhouette of his fist rising up to strike you.

Then your little boy’s door opens up.

Horrified, you scream – “Don’t worry, go back to bed”.

“Not before I give my two cents.” He says.

You kick him in his shins. You kick him in the ribs. He stomps you, beats you. The pain is bad but the alternative is worse.

Blinded with rage his kneels down and grabs the sides of your face and squeezes. He squeezes and digs his thumbs into your cheek bones and spits in your face. You spit back into his eyes and he screams at you, berserk, he bangs your head against the wall. He screams and bangs your head. After the third hit against the drywall he stops. His movements stutter. The look of anger is now surprise. He reaches for the back of his head and pulls back a palm of blood. He falls to the ground and begins to gasp.

You look and there is your son holding his little league bat. You call out, “Junior”. But he can’t’ hear you. Then you see his eyes and see the same blackness you’ve seen at the receiving end of a dozen beatings. This time colder almost black but, crying. A silent tear streams down your sons face from the black pools of his iris’. You call out his given name and that gets his attention. He looks at you now with innocent eyes and asks, “Are you okay?”

“It's alright”.

Your husband reaches for you for help.

“Baby, call an ambulance. “Babe, give me the phone”.

You crawl over to your son and take the bat from his hands. You hug him and tell him it’s going to be okay.

You get to your feet and stand in front of your son. You remind your husband that it’s going to be okay. You’re going to take care of things.

Finally, a sense of relief, (release) the final purge of emotion and frustration as you swing the bat down and strike your husband across his skull. You swing and swing until the flesh splits and the bones break. You keep swinging even after he stops pulling on your ankles. You keep swinging until the bat breaks.

Then, you hug your son.
It’s finally over.
“Pack your bags, J. We have to go”.

You both pack a few suitcases and you’re on your way. Away from the past. Away from the demons - and the drink. Where you're going, who knows? It’s anyone’s guess.
It’s a deep city after-all and anything can happen.