WRATH

“You did not just slap me.” But she had. Helen had just open-handedly struck me across the face. “What do you think you’re doing? You need me!”

“Stubborn bastard, get out of here! I don’t need you.”

“Like hell you don’t. Where do you think all that nice money in your bank account comes from? Who do you think supports your trendy lifestyle? This is my house. I bought it. Paid for it in full. Just what are you going to do if I don’t leave Helen? Are you going to go cry to your mother again? Are you going to make some phone call about how-“ Just then I see Anthony standing on the second to last step. “Anthony, what are you doing out of bed!”

He just looks at me with those large blue eyes and says, “Everyone was yelling and I got scared.” Just then I see how glossy those sapphires are and I watch as one big drop rolls down his soft cheek.

“Jesus, look what you did Helen! You made the kid cry.”

“It’s your hollering that woke him up.” She went over to the stairs and scooped up Anthony. He was beginning to whimper pathetically. As if to confirm her statement, that I was the evil parent in this situation, he buried his face into her shoulder. He refused to even look at me. I knew rationally that five-year-olds play favorites. They cling to the one giving them attention. But right now it he was just making me angry, choosing her. She was the one that started all this; she was the one always starting fights.

“Give him to me. I’ll take him back to bed.”

“No, Scott. You get out. You need to cool down.”

“Damn it Helen! Just give him to me!”

“Not right now. You’re raving like your father used to, I don’t trust you not to hurt him or me. Leave!”

That was a low blow. Bringing my father into this. It was low and unnecessary but she went and said it anyway. I have never hated anyone like I hated my father. Actually hate doesn’t even begin to describe the emotions I felt for my father. When I was a child I felt helpless when it came to him. He would come home and just be so angry. Unreasonably mad. He wasn’t even an aggressive drinker. Liquor actually helped calm him down when he came in on one of his rants.

Life pissed him off. Life and how it was unfair to only him. My father came home seeking retribution against the universe. Screaming for hours wasn’t even the worse part. The yelling and raving we could ignore. Or pretend to ignore. Mother would continue to prepare dinner and I could sit on the carpet reading a book. And most nights this just fizzled itself out. He would roar and drink. Shout obscenities out the window as he guzzled vodka. Then eventually just slump down into his chair, still nursing the glass bottle, until he called my mother over to tell that he was sorry. He was going to change. He had just had a hard day.

But these were his good nights. The bad nights, were really bad. He would come in growling at us, but the air would be tenser. He had this crazed look in his eye. When he began to pace around the room twitching that was the cue that it was time to leave. Time to hide.

My mother received the brunt of his anger on these nights. She could always sense when he was loosing control. She could just read those animalistic features and she would hide me in the pantry. Sometimes I watched them through the slit in the door.

He would continue to pace back and forth twitching every so often. His shoulders would spasm up and his head would fall to one side before returning to normal. He acted like a mutt with a bad itch just out of his reach, something that was coming up to eat him from the inside out. So he would look to the kitchen, were my mother stirred a pot on the stove. He would grab her standing there so innocently and scratch his itch.

She did her best not to cry out, because this only egged him on. He would do terrible things: Scream, ‘She deserved to be punished like he was.’ And then slam her down to the floor. He would yank her up by her hair and spit in her face. ‘Feel some of his pain!’ And she doubled over as he punched her hard into her stomach. When she fell over he kicked her in the ribs or jumped on her ankles. All the while screaming, ‘The world is trash! She was trash! Life is miserable so she should be too!’

He never touched her where her long skirts wouldn’t cover. No one saw the bruises on her abdomen. She didn’t work, she just stayed at home during the day so no one asked why she limped terribly when she walked. He controlled our lives, making every night like a game of Russian Roulette, would this be the night he went off? Or would we be safe for another day? I grew up feeling utterly helpless, with a complete lack of control. I hated to feel this way.

But what I hated more was to be compared to this man. Helen knew about my family and still she just linked me to that maniac. Yet here I was screaming and reaching for my son while my wife backed away. Both of them looked terrified at the possibilities of what I would do when I finally reached them. It disgusted me. I blamed some of the feeling on her for sickening me with the comparison. But mostly I aimed the revulsion inwards, because maybe she wasn’t too far off in her observation.

So I fled to the door and grabbed the keys of the end table. “I’m going out for a drive.” I yelled over my shoulder as I slammed the door closed behind me. I knew that some air would help to cool my head. I jumped into the driver seat and revved the engine. Peeling out of the driveway I peered through the glass window and saw Helen carrying Anthony up the stairs. I didn’t wait too long before I floored our Honda Civic, driving way too fast, down a neighborhood street.

I opened all the windows and slowed down as the next traffic light turned red. Breathe deep, I told myself. We’ll work things out. I’m nothing like my father. I love my family and would never hurt them. You cannot genetically inherit the urge to abuse others.

I was even starting to feel better as the light turned green and I proceeded through the intersection. “Just a couple more blocks and I’ll turn around and go home.” Feeling grounded I accelerated to the speed limit and enjoyed the wind flowing through my windows. I almost started enjoying myself when a yellow Mustang turned from a side street right in front of me. I smashed on my brakes to avoid hitting him.

“You just cut me off!” I yelled out the window. I’m not sure if he heard me or if he was just looking for some thrills because the driver raised his middle finger out of the sun roof and sped off in front of me.

“What the hell!” I said to myself. “Who does this punk think he is? He can’t just pull out, make me slam on my brakes and then insult me! He needs to be taught a lesson!”

So I sped up after the Mustang. Up ahead I could see him swerving in and out of lanes. Cutting more people off as he dodged around traffic. I felt responsible to stop him, he could kill someone. I pushed the gas pedal harder, attempting to close the distance between us. For a while I began to inch close, slowly the distance between was disappearing. But then in a wild turn he skid around the corner of the next street. I slowed down to turn after him, but at that point he had gained back most of the distance. His red tail lights winked back mockingly.

“Damn it!” I screamed as I slammed my hands down on the steering wheel. I was loosing him. “I just want to ring his neck! Son of a bitch! I’m not going to let him get away!”

And so I sped up, driving almost double the posted speed limit. I imitated his zig zag pattern through traffic. I knew I was cutting people off, being rude to other innocent night drivers, but this was important. I was so mad. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to feel pain at my frustration. I wanted him to cry out just like I felt like doing He had wronged me, taking away my happiness. He destroyed the evening and he was going to pay. I noticed how harshly I ground me teeth and how labored my breathing had become. But I wasn’t about to attempt to cool down. All I could see was red, those red tail lights twisting away into the night.

With my frenzied driving I’d managed to get close to him again, he was little more then a hundred feet in front of me. Up ahead of was a stoplight, where the light just turned yellow. I thought, yes! This is my chance, I’m going to teach this bozo a lesson. That will teach him to mess with me. Except for one detail, the light had turned red and he wasn’t stopping.

I watched as he sailed through the intersection, clearly running the light. He was going to escape! Impossible! Not after I was so close. I narrowed my eyes at those red lights and kept my foot on the accelerator. As I entered the intersection horns wailed, brakes screeched and people leaned out their windows and cursed. I saw the Mustang so close in front of me; yet, then there headlights flooded my window. I snapped my head to the left before a loud crunch. And then darkness.

A while later I opened my eyes and saw asphalt. Off in the distance our Honda Civic was wrapped around a telephone pole. The way it was positioned made the act look effortless, like my car was made of aluminum foil. I couldn’t feel my arms or legs. Nor could I raise my head to make sure they were still attached. My head was drowning in this puddle of warm liquid. Darkness crept into the corners of my eyes and my eyelids were suddenly too heavy to lift.

“Sir, are you conscious? Are you alright?” I realized a voice was in my ear. I tried but failed to open my eyes. It was getting so hard to concentrate. But I managed to force out a few words,

“No… not okay…da-damn bastard…got…away…“ and then it was too hard to speak. I felt my heart just slowing down and I remarked at how numb dying felt. The world simply slipped away and you were left all alone. For a few seconds I tried to excite myself back into life. I brought up the worst memories of my father, of all the hatred I felt towards that Mustang and that detestable look in Helen’s eyes. But all of the fury coursing through my veins overloaded my system. Me heart just beat itself out trying to keep up. As I fell away I was glad at least that I left with a snarl on my face.