Addicted

Addicted
By: Candance M Wait

         On a painful sigh she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the blue tweed headrest of her late model Toyota Corsica.  She shouldn’t be here.  Even after a year, memories this place evoked sliced at her until she was raw.  Opening her eyes, Susan met her reflection’s gaze in the rearview mirror.  “Hello.  My name is Susan, and I’m an addict.”  She murmured to herself on a half laugh.  Her chin length bob of glossy chestnut hair swayed as she shook her head in disgust. 
         Noise from the house across the street startled then drew her attention.  It was an average American home, painted a light charcoal with dark charcoal trim, which she knew well.  She knew it – every terrifying inch.  Chills chased the cold clammy sweat across her skin and shivers shook her overly slender frame.  To stop the shaking she gripped the top of the steering wheel and rested her forehead on her wrists.  Tears dripped freely to slender legs encased in chocolate brown jeans.  I can’t keep doing this.  Susan reprimanded herself.  Gulping in a breath Susan calmed her nerves, nearly stopped shaking, and settled back against the seat.  Fortified with raw determination, Susan once again turned to face the average American home across the street and her monster.
         The noise was three children erupting from the house to spill in playful abandon across the front yard. From the anonymous safety of the car, Susan watched.  A smile softened her thin

lips and warmed the sunken angles of her face.  In her youth, Susan had been considered quite the beauty.
Her willowy frame and heart-shaped face could have easily meant a modeling career; however, the glint of silver and diamonds bore testimony to her path.  Twisting the silver and diamonds in an unconscious habit, Susan chewed a bit on her lower lip. 
         Twice she shifted as though ready to exit the car and take action.  And, twice she turned back.  “Coward!” She hissed at her reflection in the rearview mirror.  Fighting tears, Susan sighed and once again leaned her head back against the headrest.  A year ago she’d have charged in full of arrogant determination bred from a lifetime of privilege.  A year ago she’d been a fresh young bride, happy and secure.  A year ago she was thrilled with her average American, two-story home painted a light charcoal with dark charcoal trim.  A year ago – a lifetime ago – she’d been human.
         The sound of a car approaching had Susan cautiously opening her eyes.  Watching the police cruise by, Susan felt bitter gall rise.  Where were you?  She accused silently.  Where were you when my cries shattered the quiet?  Where were you when I fled down this very street in terror?  Now, you pass three, four times every day.  Where were you then?  The police car continued on, oblivious to the deep hatred that followed it.  Susan shook her head.  She was
surprised, as always, that they didn’t stop to question why she was parked here, again.  It had become a habit, an obsession.  Oh well, I suppose as long as I’m not causing trouble, I’m not a
threat. Susan thought in disgust.  You’d think trained officers of the law would understand; it’s not the threats you see that are the biggest problem.
         Susan shook her head and turned to gaze at the house.  Her eyes took it in while her mind took her back.  It had been such a shock that first time, an outrage.  They had been in the house about a week.  It had been a glorious day, warm with a light, soft breeze that ruffled her hair and kissed her cheeks.  The floral expert at the garden shop was right.  The mix of high-end and casual flowers created just the right ambiance.  She couldn’t wait for Allen to come home.  She daydreamed about how together, arm-in-arm, they’d take it in.  Allen arrived home, looked at the dirt staining her gloved hands and knees, took in her t-shirt boldly demanding the reader “Eat at Joe’s,” grabbed her by the arm, and forcefully strode into the house.
         “What are you doing?” was the cold, angry greeting.
         “Allen?” Susan questioned.  “I’ve been planting flowers.  Don’t you like them?  I spent all day getting just the right ones, the right colors…” her voice trailed off betraying her hurt.
         “Like them?”
         She felt the crack as her head snapped back.  She tasted the blood.  Disbelief had her standing, stupefied.  Hands flew to her face as her eyes flew to Allen who had moved to place his

briefcase on the entrance table and was tossing his keys on top of it.  Flicking his wrists to adjust
cuffs, Allen brushed at an imaginary speck of dust and met Susan’s gaze.
         “Allen?”
         “We have a reputation to maintain, Susan.  What must the neighbors have thought to see you wallowing around in the dirt dressed like a Salvation Army reject?  It is bad enough we had to settle for this neighborhood.  I will not have you demean my reputation any farther.”
         “Allen, I wasn’t trying to demean anything.  I was trying to make it beautiful for you, for us,” Susan whispered.
         “For God’s sake, grow-up!” Allen snapped as Susan pressed back.  He strode past her.  “I’m not an animal.  Start dinner, I’m going to watch the news.”
         That was the first time.  Unlike the usual cycle spouted on TV or in magazines, he never apologized or brought her flowers.  He acted as though it was his right, his duty.  Susan learned, quickly and painfully.  Reputation – perceived or real – was sacred.  Allen, Susan learned through the next months, did not marry for love but for wealth, power, and above all reputation.  She learned by fear how to walk, talk, look, and act.  Any faulty execution received a backhand to the face, a punch to the midsection, or if the error was truly atrocious, a punch to the back into a kidney. 
         Unlike other whimpering victims, Susan went to the police and filed complaints.  He broke her arm for her troubles.  She never went to family for their safety, but she did go to a shelter.  He stunned her outside a counseling meeting and took her home.  The beating and rape was so severe, she was later told her she’d never be able to have children.  The times she tried to fight back caused the beatings to be more vicious.  She snuck to self-defense classes.  Catching her, Allen wrenched her right arm from its shoulder socket and broke several ribs.  Eventually, apathy settled in and over Susan.  Her life became a monotonous drone of trying to decipher Allen’s wants and desires.
         The marriage had taken on a surreal quality, when Allen informed Susan of the cruise.  His boss was taking the senior account executives on a working vacation.  She would attend.  Susan was thrilled.  They’d be leaving at the end of the week.  Packing resulted in a twisted wrist and blackened eye before all was satisfactory.  This did not diminish Susan’s enthusiasm.  Secretly, deeply Susan was planning, plotting…
         Unfortunately, Allen played the loving husband never leaving her side.  The beatings stopped, but the verbal abuse was more creatively vicious.  Susan took it in stride.  Each cruel word became a plate of armor in her revenge.  Cunning was honed into a deadly weapon, and patience became her war plan.  For war is what it had become.  A war of subterfuge and perversion.  A war of violence and cruelty.  A war with only one outcome.
         In mock innocence, Susan danced, laughed, and talked with Allen’s rival repeatedly

during the cruise’s last ball.  It was enough to push Allen to the edge.  He watched her with murder in his eyes.  Allen quietly snapped shut the door to their cabin and turned to Susan.  His
backhand sent her sprawling across the bed.  In cold deadly anger, Allen informed Susan this was the last time she would ever humiliate him and advanced only to stop as Susan sat upright in the middle of the bed and smiled. 
         “Indeed?  Do you really think so Allen?”  Susan quizzed softly the smile never leaving.  “Tight quarters here.  Who knows, maybe – just maybe – I’ll scream in pain.  What would that do to your precious reputation?  Wanna play, Allen?  Go ahead.  Hit me!  Lay one finger on me, and I swear there won’t be a living creature on this boat that doesn’t hear me.  Understand?” She waited until understanding dawned in his eyes.  “Good.  Now, put your room key on the dresser and get out.”
         Allen tilted his head and stared at Susan for several long minutes.  “Do you really want to do this, Susan?  You know this is isn’t over – not by a long shot.”  Allen took a step to the bed as he jammed his hands into his trouser pockets. “Do you really want the consequences?”
         Susan matched the tilt of his head and grimaced.  “I think I’ve already gotten the consequences.  It’s over Allen.  This marriage, this perversion, it’s over.  Either you’re going to kill me or divorce me.  Either way, I’m out of here.  Think about it, Allen.  Make your choice.  I’ve made mine.”  Susan scooted to the edge, swung her feet to the floor and stood.  Raising
fingers to her mouth, she wiped at a drop of blood. Looking at the smear, Susan turned to Allen.  “Well?”
         Allen stared at his wife with her disheveled hair and blood smeared at the corner of her mouth.  Finally with a sardonic smile, Allen pulled his room key from his pocket and tossed it onto the dresser.  Without a word he turned and left.  Susan froze.  She had been serious in her ultimatum, but given the choice she’d much rather divorce.  Susan walked slowly to the door, turned the lock, and set the chain.  Backing from the door, she paused.  Quickly, she jerked the chair from the desk and wedged that under the knob.  Was it over?  Could it be over?  Did it matter?  No, Susan thought, it’s not over, and it doesn’t matter, not at that moment.  Susan stepped to the vanity and looked in the mirror.  Huge, dark eyes and a mouth smeared with blood stared out from a pale angular face.  She looked like an Andy Warhol painting.  Shaking her head, Susan entered the bathroom. 
         On the way home, Allen informed Susan he would be renting a condo near his office complex and staying there.    He would leave the divorce proceedings up to the lawyers.  Susan murmured her consent.  Allen glanced at her from the driver’s seat.  “I could kill you now.  You know this?  Anytime, day or night.  Nobody would know.  Nobody would see.  I hold your life in my hand.  Understand?”
         Susan shrugged and looked out the window.  “What I understand, Allen, is that you are a
vicious bully.”  Turning to him, Susan gave a worn sigh, “Do what you have to.  I’m done.”  She turned and stared unseeingly at the passing scenery.  Nothing more was said. 
         Life, for Susan, became a litany of counseling and lawyer sessions.  Every little detail was brought out and poked at.  Fear remained, but the nightmares were fading.  And, that speck of light at the end of the tunnel seemed to be growing.  For the first time, in a very long time, hope was beginning to blossom in Susan, and that scared her far worse than Allen did.  Long ago, Susan had learned that where there was hope, there was more to lose.  Susan’s family became her stalwart support.  Still, she kept waiting for the bottom to drop out.
         It didn’t drop out as much as shatter.  Allen called wanting to come and get some of his stuff.  Susan agreed, set the time, and called her lawyer, Greg.  He and a local law enforcement official would be there at 9:00 A.M., Friday.  This was a necessity as the restraining order banned Allen from the premise and from being within 100 feet of Susan.  Friday, dawned bright and beautiful with a snap of cold in the air.  Susan dressed quickly matching a dark pumpkin cashmere sweater with a pair of chocolate colored jeans.  A matching jean jacket with embroider autumn leaves completed the ensemble.  Adding lip gloss and running a brush through her glossy chestnut hair, Susan declared herself complete. 
         After a lazy breakfast with her mom and very pregnant sister, Susan headed back home.  First she had to check in; Greg would be waiting.  Then she’d go shopping.  Susan’s
smile slipped as she noticed Greg’s Hummer and the patrol car.  Susan slowed down.  Her heart leapt to her throat while her stomach did a kamikaze to her toes. Stopping, Susan saw no sign of Allen or his BMW.  Not satisfied, she went around the block once, twice.  Finally, she pulled into the drive and killed the engine.  Feeling completely unsettled, Susan grabbed her purse and headed in.  The first assault was the smell.  Blood.  Urine.  Feces.  Death.  It suffocated the senses.  Susan backed up stopping as Allen appeared splattered in blood and holding a gun.
         “Hello, darling,” Allen’s low, menacing voice brushed over her. 
         “Allen?  What did you do?  Allen!”  Susan’s voice rose in terror. 
         “I told you,” insanely calm, Allen answered.  “I warned you there’d be consequences.”
         Cold sweat slithered down her spine.  “Allen, consequences for me.  The others have nothing to do with this.  Nothing.”
         “You’re right.  They have nothing to do with it – now.  It was easy, merciful.  You won’t get mercy.  You’ll beg, and I’ll kill you slowly.  The last thing you see or hear will be me.”  Allen smiled coldly.
         “Allen?” 
         “Yes?”
         “Go to HELL!”  Pulling a handgun from her purse, she fired three rounds and didn’t stop to see if they hit.  Susan flew out the door and down the street screaming for help.  Allen, braced
himself on the door jam, took aim, and fired.  Susan felt the hot burn of the bullet as it entered her thigh.  She stumbled, but fear kept her upright and moving.  Susan was to the end of her block when a police car came careening around the corner.  It slammed to a stop and officers jumped out.  Shielding their bodies, they ordered Susan to drop her weapon.  She did.  The officers stood.  Susan’s body slammed to the concrete from the force of Allen’s bullets.  Bleeding out her life steps from her average American home, painted a light charcoal with darker charcoal trim, Susan’s last thought were Allen was right. The last thing she heard was his outraged howl as police bullets peppered his body.

*****

         On a painful sigh she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the blue tweed headrest of her late model Toyota Corsica.  She shouldn’t be here.  Even after a year, memories this place evoked sliced at her until she was raw.  Opening her eyes, Susan met her reflection’s gaze in the rearview mirror.  “Hello.  My name is Susan, and I’m an addict.”