LJ Idol Season 9, Week 12: Barrel of Monkeys
The girl picks up the barrel, her squat, short fingers seeming almost unable to wrap around the plastic. Slowly, she turns it over, watching the monkeys scatter all over the table, her brows knitted together in concentration.
***
“I’m not sure if I want to be with you, anymore,” she whispers, swallowing. Her blue eyes are huge, possibly shimmering with tears. “Ever since kicking my family out of my life, I realized I don’t need to put up with this cycle anymore.”
You freeze, your own eyes burning and your breath caught in your throat. A fire builds in the pit of your stomach, and your fists ball at your sides. “You’re not sure if you want to be with me, anymore?” you hiss, eyes narrowing and tears temporarily forgotten. “After all that shit you put me through trying to push me away -- not to mention your constantly fucking begging me to stay, you’re not even sure if you want to be with me, anymore?”
She flinches, instinctively backing away from you. Fear flashes on her face. “I only did that because I thought I had to,” she says, eyes filled with regret. “I’m sorry.”
You swallow the fire and your remaining words, turn on your heel, and walk away.
***
She had fifteen minutes to get a full chain, she told herself. As she starts the timer, she studies the table once more, unsure of what her first move should be. After a few moments of tapping her fingers against the glass table, the little girl finally reaches out, selecting a single monkey. The easiest one to grab, one that had broken away from the larger pile of monkeys. She turns it over in her fingers, noticing the rough edges in the piece, and wonders if those rough patches of plastic would help it grip on to other monkeys.
***
I Give Up, you type. You stare at the LJ subject line, fingers hovering over the keys for only a moment before you click onto the expansive white space of the update page. Your son plays in the background, lining up his blocks in front of him. They’re even grouped by color, you notice with a rueful smile before turning your attention back to the computer screen.
Your stomach twists, insides clenching as you think back to earlier that day. As you think back to the sweat that has long since dried, you can still feel the sticky heat of summer as you tried to take a detour home. One that would keep the car moving, keep it from overheating. Last thing you needed was to break down with your son in the car, just as hot and sweaty as you and protesting loudly to even being in the car.
Except the detour was crawling just as slowly as the main road home. Except the temperature gauge on the car continued to climb, and you decided to go down a side street to get air moving over the engine. And when you turned around to get back to the road, a lifted truck came barreling down the shoulder and ripped off part of the bumper to your car.
You think back to the text you sent her when you finally got home -- the one with the image of the damage done to the car. You think back to how you told her you got into a small accident that afternoon. That your son had been in the car with you, and how that had impacted your decision to leave the scene. It was hot, you explained her, and you didn’t want your son sitting out in the heat any longer than he had to be.
She never once asked if you were okay. If he was okay. Instead she yelled at you. Bitched about how this would cost her even more money, and accused you of being irresponsible.
It’s pretty fucking obvious I mean 0 to Evelyn, right now, you type.
It’s the first time you’ve ever given this thought a public voice.
***
The girl picks her next move with less thought, more instinct as she pushes the monkey’s hooked arm through the arm of another monkey. As she pulls the small chain away from the pile, a third monkey latches on, and she smiles, if only briefly, at this kind of luck.
***
“So what should we watch?” your roommate asks as he settles onto your bed. He bunches your comforter and pillow behind him, to help prop himself up more comfortably. You replay your earlier conversation about this being a date in your head, initially hesitating to join him.
“I dunno. Something,” you answer, carefully lying down beside him so that you can see the laptop screen clearly. He places an arm around you, and you rest your head against his shoulder. It’s surprisingly comfortable, considering how thin he is. “How I Met Your Mother?”
“Nah,” he says, opening up Netflix with one hand. He turns his head, giving you a sly grin. “I don’t want to miss anything important if we start making out. How ‘bout Sherlock?”
“Works for me,” you say, nuzzling his shoulder as you try to ignore how hot your face suddenly feels. As the episode starts, the two of you fall into a comfortable silence. One you haven’t experienced with anyone in a long, long time. Not even with her.
At some point, the two of you share a glance. There’s a question in his eyes, and he leans forward just as your heart skips a beat -- but then he stops. “We really shouldn’t,” he whispers, his arm tightening around you. You know he’s right. You’re technically still married, even though she gave you permission to see whoever you wanted. And while you're uncertain if you'll ever want to reconcile your marriage with her, there's a chance she might later change her mind.
But why should she get in the way of your happiness? Why should the thought of her stop you from doing what you want? It never felt quite like this with her, just the quiet enjoyment of one another’s company. Why let this feeling of peace go to waste?
The next time the two of you share a glance, you gather your nerve. His eyes widen in surprise when you move in close and bring your lips down hard on top of his. Despite his earlier protestations, you’re met with equal enthusiasm, his laptop momentarily forgotten as his fingers thread themselves in your hair. When you finally break away, he grins at you, his own face tinged pink.
You don’t ever regret making that first move, not even weeks later when you put the fling to an end. After all, he listens to you. Understands that there are some things you just aren’t ready for yet, and backs off when you need him to. When you tell him to, no questions asked.
Why couldn't she?
***
The monkeys link together faster, now. The girl dips her hand, careful not to disturb the pile too much, each link feeling more precarious than the last.
***
Your fingers are flying over keys once more, weeks after the fling with your roommate ends. Your son watches television, sitting still for a record of approximately five minutes as you type. As your fingers continue to move furiously, tears fill your eyes and your chest grows heavy, making it difficult for you to breathe.
She will be home soon, and you don’t know if you’ll be able to look her in the eye. You reread the words you’ve typed; reread the confession that’s contained within them. The second to last time we had sex, I’d actually define as spousal rape.
Spousal rape.
Rape.
The more distance there is between you and her, the easier it is for you to see it. The gaslighting. The manipulation. The psychological warfare that’s been a part of your relationship since the moment the two of you became friends, over a decade ago.
And now this.
You swallow, finishing up the last paragraph of the entry in question before posting it. You don’t want to think about it anymore. Don’t want to sit here and wait for her to get home, for her to ask you what’s wrong, for you to have to lie through your teeth and keep the tears at bay until you make it to your room.
You won’t tell your roommate, or anyone you know in person, really, for another few months. After all, who wants to hear that a good friend has been raped by their spouse?
***
The chain’s grown longer, now. The girl has to stand in order to accommodate the length of it, considering the height of the table versus the length of her arm. Just two more, and then --
The chain breaks.
***
She’s kicking your brother out.
The realization hits as you cradle your sleepy son in your arms. You’re in his room, sitting in the rocking chair you used to nurse him in when he was a baby. He’s since calmed down from the commotion that happened less than an hour ago, but you can still feel her anger, strong and potent as she stands before you, her arms crossed over her chest.
“I’ve given him plenty of chances, Alicia,” she says, her tone unforgiving as she taps her foot against the hardwood floor. “You know I’ve tried to help him as much as possible. But he’s disrespected me, disrespected my rules, and now he’s hit my son?”
You purse your lips together, your arms tightening around your son as she continues to speak: “There’s not anything I can do for him anymore. He has a week to get out, and if he’s not out by then I’m calling the cops. I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” you murmur, looking her dead in the eye. “You’re never sorry. Not for anything.” And she just smiles at you -- that same, little smile that reeks of superiority.
It’s the same smile you’ve seen, time and time again, when you've called her a narcissist, when you've called her selfish, self-serving, uncaring for anyone else but herself. It lasts for only a moment, then it fades as she shakes her head. “Believe whatever you want,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Either way, he’s got a week to find a new place to live.”
You nod, and she turns on her heel and walks out of your son’s bedroom, arms still crossed over her chest. You flip her off behind her back, then glance down at your son, whose eyes are partially closed as sleep begins to overtake him. Slowly, you push yourself out of the rocking chair and settle him down onto his bed. As you pull the blanket over him, the tears begin to burn at the corner of your eyes.
With your roommate now living in Seattle and your brother gone, it’ll be just you, your son, and her.
***
The girl pauses, glancing at the monkeys that had broken away from the chain. She leans over the glass table, settling back onto her knees as she chews her bottom lip in thought. It’s only a couple of monkeys.
She glances at the time. Less than two minutes left, and four monkeys sitting innocently on the table. First, she wills the pain in her arm away, and moves in, picking up another, and another, and another monkey.
The last one sits on top of the table, taunting her.
***
You take the thick packet of papers from the woman behind the desk, pick up a pen, and head back towards a chair next to an end table. You stare at the words on top of the page, your mouth going dry as you read them, over and over.
Petition for the Order of Protection from Abuse
The past few weeks have come to this. If you’re going to move out, if you’re going to move on, entirely, you have to protect yourself. You have to protect your son. You have to do this, you tell yourself.
Still, your stomach rolls and your throat closes in on itself. She’s going to find out. She’ll be notified of the hearing. She’ll know just what you’re demanding of her, in an effort to protect yourself and your child, and she will be pissed.
It’s enough to keep you from putting the pen to paper.
***
The girl grits her teeth in concentration, her brow furrowing as she maneuvers the line of monkeys over to the last one. Just one more left.
She holds her breath as the arm of the last monkey connects with the monkey on the table. The timer’s still ticking away, alerting her that she has less than thirty seconds left. She doesn’t breathe again until she has all twelve monkeys connected on a single chain.
The girl whoops in exhilaration, dropping the chain back into the barrel just before the timer runs out.
***
Swallowing, your hand tightens around the pen, and slowly, you put it against the paper. It takes you roughly an hour, but once you’ve finished, you lean back in your seat and sigh. You sit there, going over your words, your descriptions, trying to figure out if there’s more to add. What you should add, instead of downplaying as you always do. Now isn’t the time to be afraid, you tell yourself.
Lord knows she’s only going to get worse, the longer you continue to fear her.
***
“I’m not sure if I want to be with you, anymore,” she whispers, swallowing. Her blue eyes are huge, possibly shimmering with tears. “Ever since kicking my family out of my life, I realized I don’t need to put up with this cycle anymore.”
You freeze, your own eyes burning and your breath caught in your throat. A fire builds in the pit of your stomach, and your fists ball at your sides. “You’re not sure if you want to be with me, anymore?” you hiss, eyes narrowing and tears temporarily forgotten. “After all that shit you put me through trying to push me away -- not to mention your constantly fucking begging me to stay, you’re not even sure if you want to be with me, anymore?”
She flinches, instinctively backing away from you. Fear flashes on her face. “I only did that because I thought I had to,” she says, eyes filled with regret. “I’m sorry.”
You swallow the fire and your remaining words, turn on your heel, and walk away.
***
She had fifteen minutes to get a full chain, she told herself. As she starts the timer, she studies the table once more, unsure of what her first move should be. After a few moments of tapping her fingers against the glass table, the little girl finally reaches out, selecting a single monkey. The easiest one to grab, one that had broken away from the larger pile of monkeys. She turns it over in her fingers, noticing the rough edges in the piece, and wonders if those rough patches of plastic would help it grip on to other monkeys.
***
I Give Up, you type. You stare at the LJ subject line, fingers hovering over the keys for only a moment before you click onto the expansive white space of the update page. Your son plays in the background, lining up his blocks in front of him. They’re even grouped by color, you notice with a rueful smile before turning your attention back to the computer screen.
Your stomach twists, insides clenching as you think back to earlier that day. As you think back to the sweat that has long since dried, you can still feel the sticky heat of summer as you tried to take a detour home. One that would keep the car moving, keep it from overheating. Last thing you needed was to break down with your son in the car, just as hot and sweaty as you and protesting loudly to even being in the car.
Except the detour was crawling just as slowly as the main road home. Except the temperature gauge on the car continued to climb, and you decided to go down a side street to get air moving over the engine. And when you turned around to get back to the road, a lifted truck came barreling down the shoulder and ripped off part of the bumper to your car.
You think back to the text you sent her when you finally got home -- the one with the image of the damage done to the car. You think back to how you told her you got into a small accident that afternoon. That your son had been in the car with you, and how that had impacted your decision to leave the scene. It was hot, you explained her, and you didn’t want your son sitting out in the heat any longer than he had to be.
She never once asked if you were okay. If he was okay. Instead she yelled at you. Bitched about how this would cost her even more money, and accused you of being irresponsible.
It’s pretty fucking obvious I mean 0 to Evelyn, right now, you type.
It’s the first time you’ve ever given this thought a public voice.
***
The girl picks her next move with less thought, more instinct as she pushes the monkey’s hooked arm through the arm of another monkey. As she pulls the small chain away from the pile, a third monkey latches on, and she smiles, if only briefly, at this kind of luck.
***
“So what should we watch?” your roommate asks as he settles onto your bed. He bunches your comforter and pillow behind him, to help prop himself up more comfortably. You replay your earlier conversation about this being a date in your head, initially hesitating to join him.
“I dunno. Something,” you answer, carefully lying down beside him so that you can see the laptop screen clearly. He places an arm around you, and you rest your head against his shoulder. It’s surprisingly comfortable, considering how thin he is. “How I Met Your Mother?”
“Nah,” he says, opening up Netflix with one hand. He turns his head, giving you a sly grin. “I don’t want to miss anything important if we start making out. How ‘bout Sherlock?”
“Works for me,” you say, nuzzling his shoulder as you try to ignore how hot your face suddenly feels. As the episode starts, the two of you fall into a comfortable silence. One you haven’t experienced with anyone in a long, long time. Not even with her.
At some point, the two of you share a glance. There’s a question in his eyes, and he leans forward just as your heart skips a beat -- but then he stops. “We really shouldn’t,” he whispers, his arm tightening around you. You know he’s right. You’re technically still married, even though she gave you permission to see whoever you wanted. And while you're uncertain if you'll ever want to reconcile your marriage with her, there's a chance she might later change her mind.
But why should she get in the way of your happiness? Why should the thought of her stop you from doing what you want? It never felt quite like this with her, just the quiet enjoyment of one another’s company. Why let this feeling of peace go to waste?
The next time the two of you share a glance, you gather your nerve. His eyes widen in surprise when you move in close and bring your lips down hard on top of his. Despite his earlier protestations, you’re met with equal enthusiasm, his laptop momentarily forgotten as his fingers thread themselves in your hair. When you finally break away, he grins at you, his own face tinged pink.
You don’t ever regret making that first move, not even weeks later when you put the fling to an end. After all, he listens to you. Understands that there are some things you just aren’t ready for yet, and backs off when you need him to. When you tell him to, no questions asked.
Why couldn't she?
***
The monkeys link together faster, now. The girl dips her hand, careful not to disturb the pile too much, each link feeling more precarious than the last.
***
Your fingers are flying over keys once more, weeks after the fling with your roommate ends. Your son watches television, sitting still for a record of approximately five minutes as you type. As your fingers continue to move furiously, tears fill your eyes and your chest grows heavy, making it difficult for you to breathe.
She will be home soon, and you don’t know if you’ll be able to look her in the eye. You reread the words you’ve typed; reread the confession that’s contained within them. The second to last time we had sex, I’d actually define as spousal rape.
Spousal rape.
Rape.
The more distance there is between you and her, the easier it is for you to see it. The gaslighting. The manipulation. The psychological warfare that’s been a part of your relationship since the moment the two of you became friends, over a decade ago.
And now this.
You swallow, finishing up the last paragraph of the entry in question before posting it. You don’t want to think about it anymore. Don’t want to sit here and wait for her to get home, for her to ask you what’s wrong, for you to have to lie through your teeth and keep the tears at bay until you make it to your room.
You won’t tell your roommate, or anyone you know in person, really, for another few months. After all, who wants to hear that a good friend has been raped by their spouse?
***
The chain’s grown longer, now. The girl has to stand in order to accommodate the length of it, considering the height of the table versus the length of her arm. Just two more, and then --
The chain breaks.
***
She’s kicking your brother out.
The realization hits as you cradle your sleepy son in your arms. You’re in his room, sitting in the rocking chair you used to nurse him in when he was a baby. He’s since calmed down from the commotion that happened less than an hour ago, but you can still feel her anger, strong and potent as she stands before you, her arms crossed over her chest.
“I’ve given him plenty of chances, Alicia,” she says, her tone unforgiving as she taps her foot against the hardwood floor. “You know I’ve tried to help him as much as possible. But he’s disrespected me, disrespected my rules, and now he’s hit my son?”
You purse your lips together, your arms tightening around your son as she continues to speak: “There’s not anything I can do for him anymore. He has a week to get out, and if he’s not out by then I’m calling the cops. I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” you murmur, looking her dead in the eye. “You’re never sorry. Not for anything.” And she just smiles at you -- that same, little smile that reeks of superiority.
It’s the same smile you’ve seen, time and time again, when you've called her a narcissist, when you've called her selfish, self-serving, uncaring for anyone else but herself. It lasts for only a moment, then it fades as she shakes her head. “Believe whatever you want,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Either way, he’s got a week to find a new place to live.”
You nod, and she turns on her heel and walks out of your son’s bedroom, arms still crossed over her chest. You flip her off behind her back, then glance down at your son, whose eyes are partially closed as sleep begins to overtake him. Slowly, you push yourself out of the rocking chair and settle him down onto his bed. As you pull the blanket over him, the tears begin to burn at the corner of your eyes.
With your roommate now living in Seattle and your brother gone, it’ll be just you, your son, and her.
***
The girl pauses, glancing at the monkeys that had broken away from the chain. She leans over the glass table, settling back onto her knees as she chews her bottom lip in thought. It’s only a couple of monkeys.
She glances at the time. Less than two minutes left, and four monkeys sitting innocently on the table. First, she wills the pain in her arm away, and moves in, picking up another, and another, and another monkey.
The last one sits on top of the table, taunting her.
***
You take the thick packet of papers from the woman behind the desk, pick up a pen, and head back towards a chair next to an end table. You stare at the words on top of the page, your mouth going dry as you read them, over and over.
Petition for the Order of Protection from Abuse
The past few weeks have come to this. If you’re going to move out, if you’re going to move on, entirely, you have to protect yourself. You have to protect your son. You have to do this, you tell yourself.
Still, your stomach rolls and your throat closes in on itself. She’s going to find out. She’ll be notified of the hearing. She’ll know just what you’re demanding of her, in an effort to protect yourself and your child, and she will be pissed.
It’s enough to keep you from putting the pen to paper.
***
The girl grits her teeth in concentration, her brow furrowing as she maneuvers the line of monkeys over to the last one. Just one more left.
She holds her breath as the arm of the last monkey connects with the monkey on the table. The timer’s still ticking away, alerting her that she has less than thirty seconds left. She doesn’t breathe again until she has all twelve monkeys connected on a single chain.
The girl whoops in exhilaration, dropping the chain back into the barrel just before the timer runs out.
***
Swallowing, your hand tightens around the pen, and slowly, you put it against the paper. It takes you roughly an hour, but once you’ve finished, you lean back in your seat and sigh. You sit there, going over your words, your descriptions, trying to figure out if there’s more to add. What you should add, instead of downplaying as you always do. Now isn’t the time to be afraid, you tell yourself.
Lord knows she’s only going to get worse, the longer you continue to fear her.