LJ Idol - Sticks and Stones
Trigger Warnings for violence against women, stalkers, implied violence, verbal and physical abuse. Hell, I'm uncomfortable with this, at minimum. But apparently listening to Sade's "No Ordinary Love" and She Wants Revenge make for... this...
I sit on the porch of the house that used to be ours, back when we were an “us”, thumbing the blade of a knife that I bought last week. It's sharp, to say the least, and it'd better be since I just bought it. I don't know what brought me to this one, but there was definitely something about it that made me realize that it felt at home in my hand. I watched as the neighbors drove by, and I waved to them with my free hand. It's unneighborly, to say the least, to wave with a knife. Especially in this neighborhood.
I walked back into the house-- well, I tried to, she'd managed to lock me out yet again after she left. I don't have my key anymore, so I take the hilt of the knife and break the glass of the front door and unlock it through there. She should have known better, really, than to attempt that sort of thing. The door opens easily, though with the tinkle of broken glass hitting the concrete porch that I would have installed better than whoever put this in. The house is warm, and welcoming, just like I remembered.
I don't hear any voices-- I guess the kids must be out at a friends house. Wait, no, it's a school day. That's where they are. Silly me. I make my way into the kitchen and have a small snack while I wait for her to come home, and we can talk about this like proper adults. Not like she would know how to do that sort of thing anyway. She knows damn good and well how I feel, and she's gonna pull this kind of thing against me?
I was sitting in the kitchen, my knife sheathed on my belt, when I heard her open the door. Was that noise when she fumbled through her purse for her phone, or the can of mace I know she doesn't actually keep with her? Either way, her threats were empty to me when she finally walked into the kitchen, holding her keys out like that will do something.
“What are you doing here?!” she said to me, trying to sound intimidating with her little scream but really coming off like nothing more than the scared little girl that she is.
“Now now,” I said, walking around that silly little island in middle of the room, “Don't be like that.”
“I told you not to see me again!”
I smiled, trying to lighten the mood, as I slowly walked ever-so-slowly to her, “That's not what you told me last week.”
“I was drunk! My father had died!”
“You miss me, don't you?”
I raise my hand up and try to move a couple of strands of hair that have managed to lose their place from behind her. She apparently didn't take too kindly to that as I found myself suddenly moved back by a shove and a slap across my face. She was still holding the keys, so I felt my face and I couldn't be sure if it was bleeding, but I knew that this was definitely something that we needed to talk about.
“Now, honey,” I said to her, “the therapist said this kind of aggression is unhealthy for our relationship.”
She lunged at me again, and I caught her fist in my shoulder as I tried to move out of the way. “You're a freak,” she said to me, “We haven't been together for weeks now. And you won't leave me alone. The kids are saying they see you at school, waiting for them. They aren't even yours!”
It's hard for me to remember what happened after that, because everything is gray mentally. I remember that I grabbed her, and punched her at least once. I know that I grabbed my knife, and I smashed the butt of it against the side of her head as she tried to run away from me, the heinous bitch. I gave her so much of my life, and she has the nerve to deny me my children?! Another crash of the knife handle against her, and she fell limply at the top of the stairs, rolling back down and crashing into the wall.
I walk down the stairs, and the next thing I remember is I'm sitting in a jail cell, covered in blood that they couldn't clean up. My left eye is swollen shut, and I think I'm missing a front tooth. The police tell me that when they came in, in the middle of whatever I was doing (they won't tell me what), all I was saying was “Sticks and stones, Amy. Sticks and stones.”
I sit on the porch of the house that used to be ours, back when we were an “us”, thumbing the blade of a knife that I bought last week. It's sharp, to say the least, and it'd better be since I just bought it. I don't know what brought me to this one, but there was definitely something about it that made me realize that it felt at home in my hand. I watched as the neighbors drove by, and I waved to them with my free hand. It's unneighborly, to say the least, to wave with a knife. Especially in this neighborhood.
I walked back into the house-- well, I tried to, she'd managed to lock me out yet again after she left. I don't have my key anymore, so I take the hilt of the knife and break the glass of the front door and unlock it through there. She should have known better, really, than to attempt that sort of thing. The door opens easily, though with the tinkle of broken glass hitting the concrete porch that I would have installed better than whoever put this in. The house is warm, and welcoming, just like I remembered.
I don't hear any voices-- I guess the kids must be out at a friends house. Wait, no, it's a school day. That's where they are. Silly me. I make my way into the kitchen and have a small snack while I wait for her to come home, and we can talk about this like proper adults. Not like she would know how to do that sort of thing anyway. She knows damn good and well how I feel, and she's gonna pull this kind of thing against me?
I was sitting in the kitchen, my knife sheathed on my belt, when I heard her open the door. Was that noise when she fumbled through her purse for her phone, or the can of mace I know she doesn't actually keep with her? Either way, her threats were empty to me when she finally walked into the kitchen, holding her keys out like that will do something.
“What are you doing here?!” she said to me, trying to sound intimidating with her little scream but really coming off like nothing more than the scared little girl that she is.
“Now now,” I said, walking around that silly little island in middle of the room, “Don't be like that.”
“I told you not to see me again!”
I smiled, trying to lighten the mood, as I slowly walked ever-so-slowly to her, “That's not what you told me last week.”
“I was drunk! My father had died!”
“You miss me, don't you?”
I raise my hand up and try to move a couple of strands of hair that have managed to lose their place from behind her. She apparently didn't take too kindly to that as I found myself suddenly moved back by a shove and a slap across my face. She was still holding the keys, so I felt my face and I couldn't be sure if it was bleeding, but I knew that this was definitely something that we needed to talk about.
“Now, honey,” I said to her, “the therapist said this kind of aggression is unhealthy for our relationship.”
She lunged at me again, and I caught her fist in my shoulder as I tried to move out of the way. “You're a freak,” she said to me, “We haven't been together for weeks now. And you won't leave me alone. The kids are saying they see you at school, waiting for them. They aren't even yours!”
It's hard for me to remember what happened after that, because everything is gray mentally. I remember that I grabbed her, and punched her at least once. I know that I grabbed my knife, and I smashed the butt of it against the side of her head as she tried to run away from me, the heinous bitch. I gave her so much of my life, and she has the nerve to deny me my children?! Another crash of the knife handle against her, and she fell limply at the top of the stairs, rolling back down and crashing into the wall.
I walk down the stairs, and the next thing I remember is I'm sitting in a jail cell, covered in blood that they couldn't clean up. My left eye is swollen shut, and I think I'm missing a front tooth. The police tell me that when they came in, in the middle of whatever I was doing (they won't tell me what), all I was saying was “Sticks and stones, Amy. Sticks and stones.”