Accidental Baby

by R. R. Banks

  “I take it that's unusual.”

  I nod. “We're pretty careful about making sure it's set, yeah.”

  Brown jots something down in her notebook. After that, she goes on with a tedious list of questions. I listen as best as I can and respond in kind, although everything I say sounds wooden, even to my own ears. I hear myself speaking, but it sounds like I’m hearing myself from a distance. Like I'm not even inhabiting my own mind or body – like I'm just floating through emptiness, completely numb to everything around me.

  Brown's questioning goes on for almost an hour, and by the time she's finished, I'm exhausted. Honestly, after switching from the glass to chugging straight out of the bottle, I figured I'd be drunk by the end of it. But, it seems like no matter how much I drink, I remain painfully sober.

  “I think that's about all I have for you at the moment, Mr. Ander – Aidan,” Brown says. “I'll touch base as soon as I have any information for you.”

  I nod. “Please find out who did this, Detective,” I say. “Please find this bastard.”

  “I will,” she says. “I promise you I will.”

  As I watch her walk out the front door and close it softly behind her, I wonder if she's actually going to be able to keep that promise – or if it's just some false platitude meant to placate me in the moment. I hope it's the former but suspect it's the latter.

  Or maybe, I'm just a cynical asshole.

  I sit back on the couch and lean my head on the cushions, staring up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the collection of macabre decorations all around me. Everything suddenly feels ominous. Oppressive. Suffocating. I'll have them taken down and thrown away tomorrow. Suddenly, Halloween has lost all appeal to me. The one holiday I loved the most is now tarnished forever.

  The love of my life, my partner in crime, and my best friend is gone – forever.

  The last of the emergency personnel finally leave. Without the wailing sirens and their strobing, flashing lights, everything falls still and silent once more, and I realize I’m alone.

  Truly alone.

  When the tears start to fall once more, I don’t even try to stop them. I know that I can’t. A strangled, primal scream filled with anguish and agony rips from my throat. I lay down on the couch, my body racked with sobs, as the grief overwhelms me. I let it pull me under and nestle me in its dark, cold embrace.

  Katie

  A Year Ago...

  “Where the fuck have you been?”

  His booming voice echoes through the house, making me cringe as I step through the door. He’s been drinking. Again. Or rather, as usual. When Victor's out of work, he tends to drink even more than he usually does. Which is a lot.

  “I was out,” I say. “I had errands to run.”

  I hear beer cans being knocked over and kicked out of the way as he gets up off the couch and intercepts me in the kitchen. He storms in, swaying on his feet. His expression is dark, and his once-bright blue eyes are glassy and dull. Angry. Victor is always angry. Has been for as long as I can remember.

  “Errands to run,” he spits. “What kinda bullshit is that?”

  I don't answer, doing my best to ignore him, as I put away the few groceries I was able to pick up. We needed some food in the house, and I sure as hell can't count on him to take care of the shopping. The last time I gave him money to get some groceries, he came back with cases of beer and nothing else. Since then, I learned to handle all of the shopping on my own.

  “I'm talkin' to you, Katie,” he slurs.

  “I don't have anything to say to you,” I say, not bothering to look at him. “You're not my father or my keeper.”

  “I'm your man, you ungrateful little –”

  “My man?” I hiss. “That’s a pretty generous description of yourself, don't you think?”

  “Don't push me, or I swear to God –”

  I round on him with murder in my eyes, and he wisely bites his tongue.

  “Or you'll do what, Victor? Go ahead. Spit it out. Punch me? Slap me? Kick me? What’s next?”

  We stand there, staring at each other for a moment, the air around us saturated with tension. I narrow my eyes and clench my jaw as Victor stands there, giving me a baleful look. I can tell he wants to slap me but is doing everything in his power to hold himself back.

  I'm beyond fed up with how he degrades me. Abuses me. Runs me down. With every word he speaks, my anger grows exponentially. I'm tired of him laying around, sponging off my hard work. I'm tired of him not working – of not even trying to find a job. I'm tired of his cutting and derogatory remarks. I'm tired of his gaslighting and abuse.

  Most of all, I'm tired of him.

  Victor wasn’t always this way. Once upon a time, I thought he was a good, decent man. Looking back on it now, I can't believe I was ever that stupid. Now I know that I missed some obvious red flags early on. Ignored some of the warning signs, or thought they were anomalies. Things that were just small bumps in the road, and not indicative of who he was as a person.

  Thinking back on it now – on all the things I overlooked, rationalized away, and otherwise ignored – I want to slap myself in the face.

  I mean, it was easy to ignore the warning signs at the beginning of our relationship – he was a model boyfriend. Kind and considerate. Thoughtful. He'd bring me little treats to let me know he was thinking about me. Victor was great to talk to, and fun to be with.

  Something between us has changed, though. He changed. We’ve been together about a year and a half now, but over the past few months, he's become a different person altogether. Someone I despise. A person I'm afraid of – and I hate that he has that power over me.

  More specifically, I hate myself for giving him that power.

  Then, he hit me. Oh, he was all tears and apologies after backhanding me, but the damage was done the very first time he laid hands on me. It was then that things became broken beyond repair. It was then I realized there was no redeeming him. That the sweet, kind man I'd fallen in love with was gone. Or had never existed in the first place.

  I knew then that it was time for me to go.

  It hasn't been easy, but over the last few months – ever since the night he hit me – I've been squirreling away as much money as I can. Quietly selling things to add to my stockpile of cash. I need enough to disappear. To start over somewhere new. Somewhere fresh.

  Somewhere very, very far away from Victor.

  I close the distance between us, and he looks at me like I've lost my mind. He's probably got at least a hundred pounds on me, easily. It's not like I'm going to do much damage if it comes to throwing punches.

  The simple fact that I'm standing up to him – that I'm getting in his face – isn’t acceptable to Victor. He doesn't like it. He's not used to it. I've been cowed by him for far too long, but by nature, I'm no shrinking violet. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I can be “outspoken” and “passionate” – you know, the code words people use when they actually want to say, “bitch.”

  I also know that I'm walking a dangerous line right now. Given the fact that Victor started running with a rough crowd, a group of bikers known as the Steel Cobras, I sometimes fear for my safety. From the stories I’ve heard, I fear what his “friends” might convince him to do to me – or carry out themselves.

  I finish putting the groceries away and push my way past him. Disgusted by the very sight of him, I want to keep as much physical distance between us as I can. The rage in me is building to a crescendo, and the last thing I need is to snap and hit him. That would open a whole Pandora's Box of shit I’m not in the mood to deal with. So far, I've been able to avoid it – only by the grace of God – but he's pushing me closer to the brink every day.

  “Don't walk away from me,” he growls.

  I keep walking and make it to the bedroom, slamming and locking the door behind me. Victor pounds on it, shouting angrily through the cheap, flimsy wood. He could punch his way through if he were so inclined. But thankfully, he doesn't. He j
ust stands out there and shouts – the usual threats and insults. I tune him out easily enough – I've been doing it for months anyway.

  Flipping on the radio, I turn it up loud enough to drown out Victor's ravings and flop back on the bed. I try to slow my breath and focus on calming myself down. I had a prescription for Xanax, but wanting to save as much money as possible, I stopped filling it, and have been using more natural methods to soothe my anxieties, like meditation and mindful breathing. It’s better than nothing.

  I grab my phone and pull up the banking app to check the secret account I've been keeping. I log in and pull up the balance. It’s not amazing, but isn’t too shabby, either. I've built up a decent nest egg for only working on it the last few months.

  At my current rate, all I need to do is survive another month or two, and I'll be good to go. Another month or two, and I'll escape. I'll be able to start over and build the life I want to live. On my own terms. For me, and no one else.

  Another month or two, and I'll be free of Victor and his bullshit. Forever.

  I wake up from a nightmare that has my heart racing, not realizing I'd even fallen asleep, and check the clock. I groan, seeing that it's after two in the morning. The party in the front room has been going on since about thirty minutes after I locked myself into the bedroom. They're loud, obnoxious, and I can hear things breaking out there – and can only hope it's their beer bottles. If those thugs break any of my things, I'm going to be pissed.

  Well, more pissed than I already am. It's not like I have a lot of nice things to begin with.

  I roll over and try to shut it out and go back to sleep, but the combination of the screeching metal music and their louder voices makes it impossible. I lay there for a few minutes, feeling like my blood is boiling. I try and use my usual tactics to calm myself down, but nothing seems to be working. My level of tension and anger continues to rise, and I know if I don't do something, I'm going to explode.

  I get off the bed and stomp across the room. My anger rising like a dark tide, I unlock the door and throw it open, stomping my way down the hallway to the living room. Victor's biker buddies are strewn around the living room in various states of intoxication – and dress. The booze is flowing, and there's a woman off in the corner down on her knees blowing some big, hairy guy. Wow. Looks like everybody's having a great time.

  Except for me.

  A few hazy eyes follow me as I make my way to the stereo and rip the plug out of the wall. In a rage, I pick the stereo up off the shelf and throw it to the ground as hard as I can. I can't deny feeling a small sense of glee when I see it shatter, or the pleasure the absolute silence that follows brings me.

  Of course, it's only a moment though.

  “What the fuck is going on out here?” Victor shouts.

  He steps out of the kitchen, buckling his pants. Some drunk peroxide blonde follows him out, wiping smeared lipstick off her face. She can't be more than nineteen. Probably some stupid biker groupie. Yeah, it doesn't take Stephen fucking Hawking to know what was going on in the kitchen. My goddamn kitchen.

  Victor's gaze meets mine, and the silence in the room grows deep and profound. The anger in me surges so dangerously high, I start to tremble with rage. I'm not pissed that Victor is cheating on me. I've long suspected it. Frankly, his very touch repulses me, so I'm glad his little sidepiece is keeping him entertained in that regard. It keeps him away from me.

  No, what pisses me off is the blatant disrespect of it all. That he's screwing her in my house. She's stoned and completely oblivious to what's going on around her, looking at Victor with starstruck, dreamy eyes. I can’t take this anymore.

  “Seriously, Victor?” I seethe.

  “What, baby?” he purrs, attempting to regain his swagger. “It's not like you've put out for a while. A man has needs.”

  “Maybe I haven't put out because I've got vibrators that do a better job than you do,” I sneer. “Also, call me baby one more time, and I'll cut that tiny dick of yours right off.”

  His face darkens, and a hushed gasp falls over the room. Some of his buddies don’t even try to stifle their laughter. Yeah, this must be great entertainment for them. Better than reality TV. Victor's jaw clenches and his eyes narrow. He glances around the room, silencing everybody with an icy glare. They mostly fall quiet, but the amusement is plain on their faces.

  Victor prides himself on being a manly-man. On having the biggest, swinging dick around. Obviously, he doesn't like having his manhood challenged. Especially in front of his crew.

  Oops. My bad.

  “What the fuck is your problem?” he roars, trying to save face and recover control of the situation – as if yelling at me proves that or something.

  “The party's over!” I shout. “All of you need to get the fuck out of my house. Now.”

  “The fuck?” Victor screams. “This is my house too, and I –”

  “Is it?” I ask. “When was the last time you actually paid your share of the rent? Given that I haven't seen a single penny from your broke, worthless ass in – I don't even know how long – I'd say this is more my house than yours. Now, get out. Some of us have to go to work in the morning. Like adults.”

  The low chuckles and amused murmurs continue as the partygoers get to their feet and slowly shuffle out. Victor looks apoplectic and tries imploring a few of them to stay. It’s clear to me, though, that they don't want to get caught in a fight between Victor and his old lady. They're apparently a lot smarter than he is.

  The blonde looks from Victor to me. As I turn to glare at her, the girl's cheeks suddenly flare with color, and she sprints out the front door, leaving me alone with him. We stand on opposite sides of the living room, staring at one another like gunfighters having a showdown in one of those stupid Westerns he likes to watch.

  “You have no goddamn right –”

  “I have every goddamn right,” I snap, cutting him off. “You haven't worked in months, Victor. I pay the bills around here. All of them –”

  “It's not my fault I can't find a job,” he mutters.

  “It is your fault because you don't even bother looking!” I scream. “You spend all day with your boys, drinking. You haven't even tried to find a job. You've gotten comfortable living off of me.”

  “Living off you? What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “I'm not doing this right now,” I say. “I'm going to bed. Unlike you, I have to be responsible. I have to get up and go to work in the morning. You can sleep on the couch. Again.”

  I start heading to my bedroom, desperate to catch a few hours of sleep. As I pass Victor, he stumbles forward, grabs me and slams me against the wall. My head bangs off the plaster, and I wince at the sudden pain. His face hovers mere inches from mine, a crazed light in his eyes. His foul breath washes over me, making me cringe.

  “This is my house too,” he says, his voice low. “You're my woman. And you're going to do whatever the fuck I tell you to do. You got that?”

  I struggle against his grasp, my heart beating hard with anger and fear. I've never seen him like this before, and the expression on his face makes him look psychopathic. Fear lances my heart, and I struggle to free myself from his grasp, but he's heavy. And strong. I don't stand a chance.

  “Get your hands off me, fucker,” I say, hoping it sounds more confident than I feel.

  He presses me harder into the wall. I struggle desperately, trying to break free from his grasp, but that only seems to excite him more. His hands are like iron shackles around my wrists.

  A sinister smile appears on his face as he suggestively runs the tip of his tongue around his dry, cracked lips. That crazed light in his eyes seems to burn even brighter, his breathing growing ragged, excitement coming off him in waves.

  “Get the hell off of me, Victor,” I hiss. “This isn't funny.”

  “You're damn right it isn’t,” he says. “It hasn’t been funny in a long goddamn time.”

  “Get off me, Victor!”

&
nbsp; He presses himself against me harder, the crazed look in his eye growing more terrifying with every passing second. I struggle and thrash, trying to break free, but he grips my wrists tighter and crushes me against the wall with his weight.

  He lets go of one wrist but grabs a handful of my hair. He tugs it hard enough to draw a pained scream from me as he drags me back toward the living room. I'm screaming and fighting like hell to break free but can't break his grip.

  Victor forces me down over the arm of the couch. His clutch on my hair tightens, and he pulls my head back awkwardly, painfully, chuckling ominously.

  “Victor stop,” I scream. “Stop this. You can't do this. Don't you fucking do this!”

  He drives his fist into my side, forcing the air from my lungs. I let out a low, gasping rattle, struggling to find my breath again.

  “Stop, Victor,” I croak, tears rolling down my face. “Please don't do this.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” he snarls.

  Victor lets go of my hair and with his other hand, reaches into his back pocket. For what, I don’t know. A gun? A knife?

  This is it, Katie. This is your opening. It’s now or never.

  With all my remaining strength, I throw myself backward. He loses his footing and staggers as we both go down. I land on his abdomen, and he grunts in pain as the wind is knocked out of him. Seizing the opportunity, I slam my elbow into his crotch, and scramble back to my feet. Victor wheezes and groans loudly, grasping his cock through his pants.

  “You bitch,” he growls as he somehow manages to get to his knees. “You stupid bitch.”

  Without hesitation, I grab a bottle of cheap vodka from the coffee table and swing. The bottle connects with his forehead, making a hollow pinging sound. I look at the bottle for a moment, surprised it didn't shatter like in the movies. Thankfully, Victor falls forward, one hand on his crotch, the other on his head. Blood oozes from the open gash on the side of his forehead, painting half of his face in a crimson mask.