Loathsome

He wondered  what he'd seen in her ~ ever.  He batted the envelope containing the papers against his side.  Freedom was in there; all possible with a signature from her ugly, daggered claws.  He could see the light of a new life and was giddy at the thought of being safe and happy again; no more violence.  He hated her.  Her name brought a sour burning into his throat.  The only good thing that ever came out of that woman was the son they'd had.  If he didn't get away from her soon and take their boy along, all would be lost.  A signature.  He looked to the sky and called upon whatever forces were listening:

 "Please just make the bitch sign...." he prayed. "Grant me this and I'll visit on Sundays.  Not all of them but some... Amen."  

He wasn't sure why, but he smoothed his hair and shirt, taking a deep breath to calm himself before he ventured into the demon's lair.  He puffed into his hand and made sure garlic was not lingering; old habits he supposed or he was avoiding any chance of displeasing the Devil. He rang the bell and straightened up.  His knees wobbled. What the Hell? Was he actually a bit nervous?  Fearful more likely.  He hoped this would be a hospital-free stop. He wished she was dead. This would have been so much simpler if she were just in a bag at the morgue.  He had fantasies about it...he was stuck waiting and daydreaming on the porch.

She paced around all morning.  She had done her hair three times and changed clothes a dozen.  She put on her strappy-come-get-me shoes and donned a necklace he'd bought for her on their first vacation.  She had been barking at the crotch goblin incessantly since yesterday; demanding he clean, stay out of the way, get his meals, stop making a mess, quit being so childish...just grow up and be a man. She sighed into her wineglass with exhaustion created by her single parenting. The boy floated about, did what he could and stayed out of view, appearing only when she was in need of a bottle opener.  She hated that it had come to this; signing papers as a testament to their failure as a family but she just couldn't stand him anymore.  He was such a douche.  She had ruined her body to have this kid and he just wanted to up and leave; not even trying to solve problems.  She had a few that could use attention and understanding; sure, but he wasn't flawless. She gritted her teeth and prayed someone upstairs would save her temper since last time, he'd needed stitches. She wished he was dead.  She dreamed of smashing his head with a shovel and putting him under ground.  Then she would grow tomatoes or corn like that Johnny Depp movie...One more coat of war paint on her lips and she was ready.

They squared off at the door;  smiles tight and voices high.  Politeness oozed out of their pores.

"You look amazing" he glided, not meaning a word.

"Stop. It's not all me, I've been working with a trainer."she waved him off carelessly, but soaked up the compliment.

 "Worth the money?" he barked.  She stopped and clenched her fists at her sides.  He winced knowing he'd screwed up already.

"I have earned it, don't you think?" she sweetly hissed without turning.

 "I brought the papers." he admitted in a rush.

"I figured." She pouted and looked down.  "Hey, want to have a glass of wine and celebrate?  Cheers to our new lives?" Her grin was a little too large and toothy. 

He cocked his head a little.

"Where's..."

"Oh he's around. You know how he gets.  Such a moody little ghost." she rolled her eyes.

The boy sat on the steps, glaring into the kitchen.  His stomach twisted and lurched.  His dad had run like a chicken shit and left him here alone with a woman who understood motherhood to be a staggering combo of bruising, smacking and shouting.  She had enough cunning to make it look like his dad had done it, crying to anyone within ranget; acting oh-so distraught and afraid in order to demand a higher payout in the divorce.  People climbed her cause like a tree; feeling sorry for her, demonizing the husband and  forgetting to ask for any other perspective.  No one ever spoke to this child with a front row seat, because... Who'd believe a young boy?  She'd been sure to rush ahead of him in the odd instance of inquiry, declaring him silenced due to the trauma.  Then she'd pinched him so hard the tears welled up and spilled over.  She'd frowned and blinked with large sad eyes. "See?" her face pleaded with authorities who took pity.

 His dad was just grateful that she didn't know about the young girls he'd been meeting and screwing from the on-line sites.  He was more than happy to dole out the money which his mom needed to support a drug habit her new trainer had helped her start.  The obstacle son wished they would stay together to save two normal people.  He absently rubbed the slash on his cheek from a rocketing cup used to encourage him to finish his homework faster.

They stood around and made nicey-nice.  His mother took out the wine she'd sweetly begged the boy to open the night before and poured two hefty slugs.  They gulped, grinned, opened the envelope, getting to the crux of the matter, clicking pens like swords..."En guard" the boy muttered and rested his chin in his hands. War erupted quickly,  the verbal punches landing solidly on previously wounded pride.  Experience serving as memory, the boy knew to bump up a couple of steps to disappear from their sight  maintain his view and earshot with a quick escape rout; better safe than sorry.  Her fist connected quickly with her soon to be ex's shoulder, clearly emphasizing her displeasure with the last minute addendums in custody.

 "You sonofaBITCH"  

  He looked like a guppy out of water: eyes huge and mouth wide. The boy mimicked and smiled to himself as the melee unfolded.  His father lunged, grabbing and shaking her, forcing her to the ground where he quickly straddled her body.  The words were muffled by rage and spit. The boy tried not to giggle hearing the eff-bomb AND the C-word bubbling shamefully from this grown man's mouth.  She flailed and gasped but there was just too much hate built up and the man couldn't stop.  From, the vantage point, their loving son heard a light "pop" and then, the woman went limp.  Dad froze, trying to catch his breath.  It was his turn to tremble.  He nudged her and spoke softly, even apologized, but done was done.  And now he had to figure out what to do. He crumpled next to her on the floor, draining his glass.  He swiped at his face, choosing to suck down the dead woman's wine as a valuable first step to a solution.  He dropped his head in his hands and wept; not for her, but for the trouble that was beginning to crush him like an anvil. He drew in a jagged breath and coughed.  There was pain behind his eyes, like white fire; migraine he figured.  But then some cramping; more coughing as his lungs burned and tightened.  His color drained as at last he understood.  He'd been poisoned.

"That BITCH!" he spat and clumsily tried to jump to his feet, grabbing for his phone he'd laid on the counter with the envelope. His hands scraped and scooted along the empty surface as he groped.  A small "tsk" flicked in the air and he looked up, startled by his son's presence.  His eyes darted to his phone, in the boy's hands who had quietly witnessed it all..  His father staggered, tried to speak but his limbs all seemed to be turning to jelly.  Foam bubbled from him, white at first then fading to a dark crimson. His coughs sent it spattering thickly against the wall, the counter, the floor....

"oooo bad news Dad." the boy shook his head slowly.  "not gonna get the papers signed.  Not gonna get that new life filled with young giggly pussy." he wrinkled his nose as if he'd smelled a fart.

Understanding what was truly happening, the man made one last lunge.  The boy stepped to the side with ease and patiently waited while his father began to seize and collapse.  Lifeless.

He dialed the phone and began to cry.

The police came and shook their heads.  Murder suicide in front of their own child. What kind of man would do this? What woman?   They would be touted as disgusting and loathsome.  Which of course they were.  Their selfish, awful secrets were dragged through the mud while the boy remained silent; stoic, and was never really questioned.  It was very clear that she had poisoned the wine and he had choked her to death.  That was the best gift his dad had given him; his father's loss of control.  It steered all suspicion from the little monster who had poisoned them both.  He was immediately scooped up by his aunt and uncle, who fussed over him constantly.   He didn't know them well but they seemed nice.  He hoped they were.

For their sakes.