"Didn't I tell you I haven't been with anyone? I'm not sleeping around!" yells Mr.
Whitfield to his wife.
"You’re always out late and you never come home until almost 11:00 at night. What do
you expect me to think? That you’re grading papers? It's the first grade for Pete's sake
Harry, they don’t have 11 page papers to turn in!"
"Don't patronize me Brenda."
"Or what? You’re going to threaten to hit me like last time? We both know you haven't
got the balls for that Harry."
"I swear Brenda I'll-"
"You'll what? If you’re going to hit me then get it over with!" screams Mrs. Whitfield.
She abruptly steps up to Mr. Whitfield and spits in his face. "Do it!" she screams again.
Mr. Whitfield stands shaking with his face red and wide eyes. He struggles to keep
calm as he quickly swipes his hand across the kitchen table, knocking everything to
the floor. Glasses and plates crash to the floor, reaching every corner of the kitchen.
"Well", says Mrs. Whitfield, "Since you took the pleasure in knocking that down, you can
also have the pleasure of cleaning it up." Mrs. Whitfield, turning away from her
husband to hide the tears streaming down her face, walks out of the kitchen. They had
many nights like this, she thought to herself. All they ever did was argue and knock
things over. After 10 years of marriage, Mrs. Whitfield was considering for the 5th time
leaving her husband. Although she always thought about it, she never actually did leave.
Mrs. Whitfield always seemed to have the hope that things would change, that her
husband would be the man who first showed up at her parent’s house with flowers and
candy again. But that young man was gone and had been replaced with a 34 year old
man who threatened her nearly every day during arguments. "It has to be done", she
whispers aloud to herself, "I can't live like this anymore." With that said, Mrs. Whitfield
begins to do something she's thought about doing for a long time. She takes out the
suitcase from under the bed and begins to empty her dresser.
Mr. Whitfield sits at the kitchen table, staring down at the mess he created. Mrs.
Whitfield's words play over in his head, since you took the pleasure in knocking that
down, you can also have the pleasure of cleaning it up. She was starting to sound more
and more like his mother every day. At least she was dead, he thought. Mr. Whitfield,
staring down at the broken glass, picks up a piece and holds it tightly in his hand. He
closes his eyes and balls his hand into a fist until the glass is no longer visible. He feels
the sting as the glass cuts deep into his hand, but the pain he feels in his hand is not
enough to stop him from squeezing. Mr. Whitfield stares down at his balled fists and
watches as blood runs down from his hand and onto the floor. Too frozen to move, he
sits, unable to do anything else but squeeze.
Mrs. Whitfield looks around to make sure she has everything she needs. Taking the
suitcase off of the bed she grabs the handle and begins dragging it loudly out of the bedroom and down the hall. As she listens to the suitcase dragging against the wooden floor, she thinks about her husband, wondering if he will attempt to stop her from leaving. Would she stay? Would she give him another chance if he tried to stop her? She wipes more tears streaming down her face as she finally approaches the closet near the front door. She opens it and reaches in for her coat, the coat Mr. Whitfield bought her for Christmas 4 years ago. She stands by the front door waiting to see if her husband will come, waiting to see if that young man with the flowers and candy will come. She made sure the suitcase was loud enough for him to hear her leaving. As she stands there, with lost hope, she opens the door and steps out into the cold and dark winter with the only sound of her car keys dangling from her hand to sing to her.
Mr. Whitfield stars at his hand, and looks at the deep cuts now formed. He gets up and
walks to the bathroom as if in a trance. Opening the medicine cabinet he reaches and
takes out the rubbing alcohol. Slowly untwisting the top, he then tilts the bottle and
allows the alcohol to pour onto his hand. His hand throbs in intense pain as the alcohol
soaks into his cuts. Mr. Whitfield, smiling with both enjoyment and pain welcomes the
throbbing coming from his hand. Anything to outweigh the desire he felt within.
He watched her. For the 23rd time Mr. Whitfield stood silently by her window
every night and watched her. Watched her take her clothes off, brush her hair, and
watched her sleep. He was cheating on his wife. Mrs. Whitfield was right about him,
but it wasn't what she thought. He hadn't slept with her. Yet. So far all he did was
follow her around and stay outside her house, unnoticed every night. Her house was on
at least 10 acres with huge trees surrounding the whole property. Neighbors weren't a
problem for him since they were so spread apart. It was perfect. Mr. Whitfield could
pleasure himself in the shadow of the trees with no one knowing and watch her. She
was all he could think about, all he wanted for the past 23 nights. Watching her every
night made him forget about his awkwardness. He was always more comfortable
around people like her. People like her seemed to understand him better. Only people
like her. It had to be her. His wife could never fully understand him the way he
wanted. He listened to Mrs. Whitfield leave, stood silently and watched in the shadows
of the hallway as she stood as if waiting for him to come. Why would he come? She
wasn't worth his time anymore. Now that she is gone he can spend more time
with the girl of his dreams. It would only be a matter of time before he finally makes his
presence known. And for the first time since he cut his hand the other night, his desire
outweighed the throbbing pain.
Mrs. Whitfield sat on the bed in her hotel room, staring at the black television screen.
She couldn't remember how many times she suspected her husband of cheating on her.
Was it the 5th or 6th time she accused him in the past 7 years? The first 3 years of their
marriage were like gold. But then he slowly began to change. Either that, or he was
no longer hiding who he truly was all along. She didn't know if there was one woman or
many, but she did know that he was with somebody else, that someone else had his
attention other than her. Mrs. Whitfield no longer understood her husband and no longer
cared. At least, she didn't want to.
Mr. Whitfield sat in his car in the school parking lot thinking about her. There was
nothing else he could allow to enter into his mind. Today would be the day. He would
finally make his feelings known. He sits and watches as the children stand in front of
the school building, waiting for rides and waiting for friends to walk home with. He
glances in the crowd of kids to see if he can spot one of his students. As the crowd of
kids grows thinner, he spots Carol, one of his favorite students. She did well on all
her homework and activities and never missed a day of school. She was a shy student
who didn't speak up in class, But Mr. Whitfield was always giving her special
student-teacher attention to help her be comfortable in class. He knew what it was like
to be shy and awkward, that's why he tried his best to help her be comfortable.
Mr. Whitfield really was a good teacher. He paid close attention to his entire student's
needs, but there was always at least one that needed extra attention. Mr. Whitfield sticks
the key in the ignition and starts the car. The gas meter lands on the full mark and the
radio blast the song party in the USA. As he drives up to the front of the school, he
slowly comes to a stop where Carol is sitting outside and waiting by herself as usual.
She hears the music from Mr. Whitfield's car and looks up smiling with excitement as if
her favorite song were being played.
"Hello Ms. Carol," yells Mr. Whitfield over the music. Carol shyly waves her hand.
"Are your parents late picking you up today?" he asks. Carol nods her head and
answers, but Mr. Whitfield doesn't hear.
"I'm sorry sweetheart, could you say that again?" he turns the radio down and leans over
the passenger seat.
"My sister is supposed to come get me but she's not here." says Carol in a quiet voice. Mr.
Whitfield knew Carol's older sister. She was frequently late getting her sister.
"Why don't you hop in and let me take you home. Your parents have met me before
and I'm sure they wouldn't mind." says Mr. Whitfield politely. Carol picks up her
backpack and lunch box and begins walking to the car. Mr. Whitfield opens the door
and she climbs in smiling as she softly sings party in the USA. Mr. Whitfield smiles and
drives off away from the school. They go down the road, past houses and trees. Mr.
Whitfield glances at Carol and smiles. He finally has her, he thinks to himself. The
girl of his dreams. Everything he ever wanted. Now he can finally make his feelings
Bio - Writing has always been a release for me ever since I was a child. I love to write about the taboo and unexpected that bring people chills when they finish reading.