Mazie Baby (11 page)

Her hand trembled against the cool
of the doorknob. She turned it and peered in. He lay on their bed on his back,
covers on the floor. His naked body that she’d once found so enticing, now repulsed
her. The only sound was his breath, the only movement the rise and fall of his
chest.

Why hadn’t she thought of drugging
him before?

She approached the side of the bed
and pulled the thin sheet over him, blocked his exposed private parts from her
view. She poked his cheek with one finger. He didn’t flinch. She smirked and
dropped the bourbon on the nightstand.

She pulled the only two neckties he
owned from the closet. The coarse hair on his legs rasped against the satin
finish of the material as she wrapped each tie around his ankles and tethered them
to the bedposts. He slept through the caress of polyester against his skin,
through the shifting of the bed sheets when she dragged his legs into place. A sour
odour emanated from his feet. He’d never let her put charcoal insoles in those
old work boots, complained that they made his feet sweat even more. He tromped
those smelly feet all over her clean floors. The sweat infiltrated the carpet,
hung in the air like a permanent, inescapable cloud.

She released the scarf from her neck,
touched the tip of her fingers to the bruise that ran parallel to her collar
bone and winced. Her upper lip quivered and she narrowed her eyes. The silky
fabric slithered around his right wrist. It was too good for him, too soft. He
didn’t deserve such comfort. Why didn’t she think to get rope?

No. The scarves were perfect. She’d
hidden behind them for years. It was time they were put to better use.

She tied a French bowline knot around
his wrist like she’d practiced, then secured the scarf with as many half-hitches
as the length of fabric would allow. The other end was tied to a slat in the
headboard with an anchor bend knot. It worked better during trial runs, without
his damn arm attached to the other end.

“Shit!” She tossed the untied end
aside and stood, arms akimbo. A cow hitch would have to do. When she yanked it
tight, his hand flopped into the air and slapped the mattress. The knot held.
And he kept snoring.

She dug into her scarf drawer, all
the way to the back where the old scarves were. Her hand brushed something cold
and hard. Her flask. She’d forgotten about that. She shook it, still more than
half full of brandy. She set the flask on the dresser, chose her
least-favourite scarf, and secured his other arm.

She emptied the pockets of his pants
and dropped the contents on the dresser. She pushed the items aside with one
finger and wrinkled her nose. Used Kleenex stained with the dirt and grime that
he breathed in every day, a gas receipt, and a few coins. She fished his wallet
out of the front breast pocket of his work shirt and flipped open the billfold.
His debit card was right there on top. She slid it free from the leather turned
it over. Six-two-six-nine. He’d written his PIN where the signature belonged.
She glanced at him.

And he thought she was stupid?

She tucked the card into her back
pocket along with the few bills he was carrying. Something purple glinted from
the fold in his wallet. With her index and middle fingers, she pulled out a
foil packet. A condom? In his wallet? He had her on the pill for years. To make
sure her mistakes didn’t come back and haunt him again, he’d told her. Like she
wanted to bring another innocent child into this war zone.

“You sorry bastard.” She shook her
head. “It’s not enough that you’re an abusive prick? You have to fuck around on
me too?” She rummaged in the bathroom drawer until she found the smooth steel
of her hair scissors. The packet yielded to the blade, like a hot knife through
ice cream. She slivered the foil and rubber and sauntered back to his bedside.

“I don’t give a damn how many women
you’ve slept with. Better them than me, right?” She tossed the scissors on the
dresser next to his empty wallet, and strewed the remains of the condom across
his body and the bed.

The box in the closet came loose
from its duct tape shackles. She sat in the chair in the corner of the room and
flipped through the duplicate Polaroids, reread her notes and the dates,
relived every abusive blow, every choking hold on her throat, every cut, every
scratch. Every broken bone.

She paused at one photo. Her first
black eye. The first time the abuse took a public form. And the first time she
documented what he’d done to her. She held the picture up. “Look at that,
Cullen,” she waved it in the air. “Remember that day? I do.” She stood and
hovered over him. “Like it was happening this very second. The same way I
remember every time you’ve hit me. Beat me. Demeaned me.” She paced around the
bed. “Every time you glare at me, raise your voice. Even when you’re silent. Hell,
those are the worst times of all. Silence is the eye of the Cullen storm.” She
chewed on her thumbnail and stopped at the foot of the bed, her other arm
around one footboard post. The smell of his foot, lashed to the bed, wafted up
to greet her. She wrinkled her nose and continued to pace.

“Do you know what it’s like? To
live your life in fear of someone who is supposed to love you?” She paused at
the head of the bed and slapped his cheek. “To never know if what you do or
what you say is good enough? Is right?” She resumed pacing. “It fucking sucks,
that’s what it’s like. I can never relax, except when you go fishing without me.
But when you made me go? That was the worst. I hated those trips. Just there to
gut and fry the fish, clean your gear, and fuck your sorry ass.”

She kneeled beside the bed and
rested her arms on the mattress, poked at his shoulder. “But the worst is when
you apologize. I used to feel so sorry for you, happy that you were sorry for
hurting me. Relieved. But you were always sorry, weren’t you? And it was all a big
fat lie. Were you ever truly sorry, Cullen?” She stood. “Were you?” Tears
streamed down her face and she swatted them off her cheek. “No. No damn tears
tonight. Because I’m done with you.” She stabbed one finger toward him with
each sentence. “I’m over this shit. Finished with this life. Wake up, damn you!
I want to see your face when I leave. When I take Ariel away from you.”

The room darkened as dusk turned to
night. The digits on the clock radio glowed eleven fifteen. He’d been asleep almost
five hours. Her body vibrated, and she hopped around the room to shake off the
adrenalin. She drank a long gulp of brandy and sat the flask, uncapped, on the
dresser.

As time wore on, she wearied from
the wait. Maybe she should’ve only put two pills in his booze. But maybe that
wouldn’t have been enough. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair.

The bobbing of her head jarred her
awake. She eyed the clock. Three fourteen. He was snoring now, and his legs
twitched and pulled against the tie bindings. He moaned and turned his head,
pulled on his arms. His eyes crept open. It seemed to take minutes for him to
focus. Then clarity crossed his face. He jerked his head back and forth, looked
from one tethered wrist to the other. “What the fuck?” He lifted his chin to
his chest and stared at his legs, then his gaze found her. “Untie me, you crazy
bitch!” He yanked on the scarves, twisted his head around to reach for the knot
with his mouth.

She stood and stepped toward him at
a glacier’s pace. “What’s the matter? I thought you liked a little bondage.”
She reached up under the shade of the floor lamp and tugged the string. Soft
light bathed the room.

He laid his head back and laughed.
“Oh, I get it. You want to get kinky with me? That’s a first.” He eyed her up
and down. “Get these off me and I’ll show you how to do it right.”

Her heart hammered in her chest and
her knees shook. But she was out of his reach. For the first time in years.

“What’s your plan here, Mazie? Just
going to piss me off more and more? Wait ‘til you see what I’ve got planned for
you when I get free.” He yanked on the ties and kicked his feet. “Let me loose,
you fucking whore!”

The sight of him tied down, unable
to get loose — at her complete and utter mercy — along with brandy still warm
in her veins, bolstered her bravado. She edged up to the bed and leaned her
face toward his. A sneer crossed her lips. “Make me,” she said, her voice a low
growl.

He jerked his head forward. She
jumped back and covered her face with her hands. Her heart pounded, legs
trembled.

In the quiet of the room, his laugh
cut right through her.

She lowered her arms.

He grinned at her. “You chicken-shit
bitch. It doesn’t matter what you do, I’ll always have you. Always.”

Her peripheral vision blurred and
his face came into clear focus. She spun around, snatched the scissors from the
dresser and plunged them into his thigh.

He screamed. His mouth and brow
contorted and he thrashed his arms against their restraints.

She retreated, one hand over her
mouth, and stared at the black plastic handle sticking straight up from his leg.
Blood oozed from the wound, dripped onto the cotton sheets.

That would leave a stain.

When she backed into the bookshelf
opposite the end of the bed, she stumbled and landed on her ass on the carpet. She
laughed — a snicker at first. Soon she was lying on the floor, doubled over, killing
herself laughing.

“Mazie, it hurts.”

She stopped laughing and sat up,
her back against the rows of books that had kept her company these past years,
when friendships waned and her isolation grew. When she couldn’t find the
energy to lie about the damage to her body and simply hid from the world,
covered head to toe in clothing, and buried beneath a landslide of self-doubt
and guilt.

She stood and edged closer, stared
at the scissors, at bright blood juxtaposed against creamy sheets. The black
plastic handle, the stainless steel blades buried in his olive-toned flesh. “Mazie,
it hurts.” She scrunched up her eyes and spit his pitiful plea back at him in
high-pitched baby-talk. She touched the handle of the scissors, drained her
face of emotion and looked him in the eye. “I think that’s the point.” She turned
the blade.

He gasped. His eyes went from dark
and angry to pinched and pleading. Frightened and in pain. “Stop. Please.”

She cocked her head. He was vulnerable
and wide-eyed. She’d never seen him like that.

She neared the head of the bed,
transfixed by the pain in his eyes. By his need for her to save him. To rescue
him. She kneeled down and touched his chest with one hand, rested her chin on
her other arm, and watched his expressions change.

His breath was heavy and laboured,
his chest rose and fell in fast rhythm with each inhale and bourbon-scented
exhale.

“Mazie.” His voice was gravelly. A
hoarse whisper. “Baby.”

She used to love it when he called
her that. Mazie Baby. It spoke of his love for her, his desire to take care of
her, protect her. Like a mother is supposed to keep a child safe from harm. It morphed
into a taunt, like a schoolyard bully mocking a weak kid crying for his mommy.
What’s the matter, baby? You gonna cry, baby?

“Come on, baby. Untie me. You’ve
made your point.” He smiled one of his fake smiles. “You know I love you,
right?”

How many times had he said that? After
he hurt her. After the apologies that used to mean something but now rang as
hollow and untrue as most every word he spewed.

He took a deep breath, his cheeks
ruddy and splotchy. “Let me go now,” his voice had turned from sweet and
conciliatory to low and growling. “And I promise I won’t hurt you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You
promise?” She pushed off against his chest and stood. “You promise?” Her voice
gained strength with the understanding that no promises would ever be kept.
That he would hurt her if he wanted, whenever the whim struck. “How many times
have you promised you would stop? Then what happened, huh? I’ll tell you what.
You beat me. Again. And again.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “It’s never
going to end, is it?”

“If you don’t take those scissors
out of my leg and untie me,” his voice grew stronger and louder with each word.
The pleading and fear in his eyes dissolved under the weight of the hatred and
fire that returned with a vengeance. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

Every emotion drained from her. She
turned and snatched the brandy from the dresser and took a long drink.

“It fucking hurts, damn it! Can’t
you see that?”

She spun around and threw the flask
against the wall behind his head. It hit with a thud and bounced onto the floor.
Sticky alcohol sprayed the wall and the bed and his face and chest. She crossed
her arms, twisted her face up, and bent toward him. “It hurts.” She imitated
the mocking tone he’d turned on her countless times these past years. “It
hurts, it hurts, it hurts!” She grabbed the stack of Polaroids and held them
up. “You want to know what hurts?” She flung each picture at him, like dealing
a deck of red-hot cards. With each photo that landed on the bed, she reminded
him of the damage done. “A black eye, that hurts. And a broken arm. Two broken
ribs. Yeah, that hurt too. Oh, remember this?” She held the picture up and
shoved it in his face until it was pushed up against his nose. “That’s what my
lower back looked like after you beat me with an empty Jack Daniels bottle
because I forgot to get you a new one!” She paced and shook her head, derision
huffing from her nostrils. “Yeah, that fucking hurt, believe me.” She turned
back and yanked the scissors from his leg.