Whispers - Volume 2: A Second Collection

by Stuart Keane

  "Stop lying to me!"

  "I'm not … I told you, I took my mother …"

  Richard heaved Lisa off the floor with both hands. Lisa could feel and hear her hair tearing away in clumps between his flabby fingers. He tossed her across the kitchen, her small frame clattering into one of the worktops. There was no give, her back slammed hard and she fell to the floor, gasping for air.

  "It's clear that you continue to deceive me. I give you everything, everything! I give you that, and you deceive me, don't even have the fuckin' stones to confess. Well, you aren't going anywhere until you confess. In addition, even then, I might not let you leave. Why should I? Until death do us part, right?"

  Lisa spat a wad of hot blood onto the floor, groaning. She wiped her crimson lips with her forearm. This is how my life ends?

  What a pathetic way to go.

  How did it come to this?

  Lisa didn’t know what Richard was talking about. She hadn't cheated on him; she'd genuinely treated her mother to dinner, with her own money. True, ninety pounds might be a bit excessive but hey, if Richard can put a kitchen in his bedroom, she can treat her mother to a three-course lunch and a bottle of wine. Lisa realised that, no matter what she said, Richard would twist it and not believe her. She didn’t cheat on her husband, despite having many opportunities. She believed in the sanctity of marriage and would never defy it, never break her vows, which stood on rickety foundations right now.

  There was no way out.

  She was a dead woman.

  He'd hit her before, once or twice, but he'd never thrown her across the room, never manhandled her. In honesty, Lisa expected this; it'd be been brewing for some time. A combination of ego and greed and power – the outcome was never going to be pretty. The chemicals from his terrible diet probably didn’t help either.

  She glanced up. Richard was a few feet away, stroking his erection. Was he getting off on this? As he pleasured himself, his spare hand gripped a fried drumstick and shoved it into his mouth. Lisa looked down, her strength ebbing away slowly.

  I need to do something. Anything. I can't let this be the way I go.

  It's been too long. I deserve better.

  Lisa pushed herself from the ground and stood up, balancing on the worktop behind her. She let go, walking on her two own – if slightly wobbly – legs. Richard finished his drumstick and tossed it onto the table, the masticated bone hitting the plate with a clink. His eyes slowly turned towards her.

  Lisa imagined she was in a horror movie. She imagined the boogeyman spotting her and beginning his pursuit. Looking at her husband, he exuded nothing but pathetic greed and bad body odor. She felt no fear, which surprised her. The dark cloud of fear always lingered, his every utterance or motion dripped with it, her body developed a nervous twitch whenever he was present. The fear followed her around like a bad smell, literally in some cases, and every waking minute timed against his need for attention. Like knowing you were going to be assassinated at any moment but never knowing when.

  Her very existence fed on fear. It was exhausting.

  Now, it was gone.

  Maybe something had clicked, maybe being slammed into a counter like a piece of meat dislodged something, turned on a survival instinct. Maybe her brain had finally had enough.

  She didn’t want to die.

  Dying at the hands of this pathetic waste of space – no one deserved that.

  Which is why she no longer feared him. She almost smiled.

  "Fuck you, you fat piece of shit."

  Before she'd realised, the words slipped out.

  The game, as it stood, changed forever.

  Richard's eyes bulged in his fat face. "What did you say?"

  Lisa spat blood onto the floor. "You heard me."

  "It sounds like you … well, if I'm not mistaken, you just … oh, I'm going to enjoy this."

  "What? Hitting a woman? Beating on your loyal wife?"

  "You ain't loyal; you fucked some cunt behind my back."

  "If I wanted to fuck a cunt, I'd just stay home."

  She saw colour flash into his cheeks, redden the sweaty piles of flesh beneath the widened eyes. His bald hair shone in the light. His belly wobbled behind the apron, even though he wasn’t moving. He smiled. "So, this is how it's going to be, eh?"

  Lisa moved left, keeping the island counter between her and Richard. He wiped his greasy fingers on his apron, leaving long smears on the faded white material. She noticed his second bulge was still present. She said nothing.

  "I never thought you had it in you, you know. Breaking your marriage vows … you always preached to me how important they were."

  "They are important. And, as much as I wanted to break them, to seek comfort in the arms of a real man – and boy, I had so many chances – I didn’t. I'm a woman of principal and, if it means staying married to you, well, I'll honour them."

  "You're a fucking Mother Teresa, ain't ya?"

  "I never cheated on you, Richard."

  "You're a woman of principal, yet you still insist on lying to me."

  "I'm not lying … if you can't believe that, that's your problem." Lisa licked her swollen lip, judging his reaction. Timing was everything. "And if you can't believe me, this marriage is over."

  Richard wobbled. Lisa thought it was a little odd, but it was as if the ground beneath him had shook or someone had poked him with a small calibre Taser. He just seemed to wobble, as if the sentence had shook him to his very core.

  "This marriage is over –"

  "– it ain't over until I say so. Me. Not you."

  "Sorry, Richard. You aren't the boss of me anymore."

  "I'm your husband. You'll obey me."

  "You're not a husband, and I'm no wife of yours. This marriage is –"

  Richard shot sideways and tossed the table over. Its contents smashed into the wall beside him, the shattered plates and food dropping into the deep fat fryer with a sizzle. "Fuck you, this isn't over. I'm in charge, this is my house."

  "I want to leave now, okay?" Lisa said it calmly, realising her voice was unnerving him somewhat. Fear no longer had its grip on her. She looked down quickly, still keeping the island between them.

  Her husband stared at her. His face wobbled with anger and disbelief, both of which made him shake and quiver. His eyes bulged out of his sweaty face. He bent down to the ground, pulling out a drawer on the worktop. "If you want to get out, you have to go past me."

  Lisa said nothing.

  Richard stood up and brandished a new weapon. A SPAS-12 shotgun with a folded stock, which sat on top of it like a small passenger. The black weapon, brand new and gleaming, almost made Lisa urinate on the spot. This was unexpected.

  "If you want to get out, you have to go past me and my new friend."

  Lisa lowered slightly, hiding behind the island counter. She wondered if Richard was insane enough to fire the weapon in such close proximity to his new kitchen and immediately knew the answer. Yes, yes he would. He'd just buy a new one or pay some poor soul to repair it.

  He'd probably offer them chicken as a reward.

  Lisa's eyes remained on the new weapon. Richard, his eyes on the shotgun, looking at it like a naked hooker with huge breasts and a Brazilian wax, smiled. He licked his greasy lips and started stroking the weapon. "My friend here, Franchi, won't let you leave. She and I know; you're ours. My house, my rules."

  "Richard. Put the gun down."

  His eyes shot to his wife. "You telling me what to do?"

  "No … no. I just don’t want you to get hurt."

  "Why do you care? You just told me our marriage was over."

  "I'm angry, you just … just hit me and threw me across the kitchen. A man doesn’t do that to his wife, the woman he vows to love and honour." Lisa licked her bloody lip, biding her time. "Listen, put the gun down and we can talk like adults, okay?"

  "Our marriage is over. You meant that. You did, didn’t you? Why are you telling me what to do?"

  "Our mar
riage doesn’t have to be over," she lied. "We can work this out … if we're civil about it. We can’t be civil if you blow our fucking heads off."

  Richard looked from the weapon to his wife, back to the weapon again. An awkward silence filled the room and slowly, after a full minute of contemplation, he lowered the shotgun. He replaced it back in the drawer but left it open. Lisa breathed heavily, hoping he hadn't heard her. "That's good." She took a step forward. "Let's talk about this."

  "What's there to talk about? You're off fucking all and sundry."

  "Richard, you have to believe me, I'm not being unfaithful."

  "All women say that, you wouldn’t tell me the truth anyway. You just want what you want, carnal pleasure, and then you move onto the next person. What? My cock not big enough for you?"

  Lisa said nothing. She took another step forward.

  "Is it too small? Does your bucket cunt no longer feel satisfaction from me? Does it not touch the sides anymore?" Richard grasped his genitals in a sweaty hand and thrust. "Am I not man enough for you?"

  Another step. Lisa edged closer.

  Suddenly, Richard dropped the second fryer and the sound of spitting oil shattered the silence. Lisa frowned at the unusual action. That's odd. Why?

  "Fucking talk to me, woman!"

  Lisa stopped. Richard was within touching distance now, still with the corner of the island between them. "You're my husband; of course you're still man enough for me." She left out the part about sex being a chore, how when he rolled on top of her she felt like a rape victim. He didn’t need to hear that in such a dangerous location. Maybe if they made it to therapy she'd bring it up then.

  Maybe.

  And what was that godawful smell?

  Richard snorted. "You lie."

  "I don’t, and you have to stop accusing me of lying. Listen, I can't leave the house. You monitor my finances. We have sex every day and you make more money than most do in a lifetime. I have no reason …" Lisa looked down, took a breath. Nearly there, easy, don’t fuck it up now. "I have no reason to leave you. I have no reason to break my vows to you, okay?"

  Richard said nothing. He grabbed the basket of the fryer and jiggled it, ensuring its contents submerged in the hot fat. She saw the motion wobble up his arm and through his flabby shoulders and realised that the bad smell was coming from that basket. What the hell? Richard had probably battered some garlic sausage or slightly off chicken.

  Lisa took another half step, ensuring the boundary between them wasn’t breached. Her husband turned to her, a sniffle escaped his lips. "You know how paranoid I get. Why wouldn't you leave this?" He ran his hand down his body, indicating to himself.

  Lisa frowned slightly. Okay, this is new.

  Normally, Richard's ego would kick into gear. I'm the best at what I do or no one compares to me or, once, Bill Gates has nothing on me. In terms of their marriage, it was something along the lines of; you'll never find someone as good as me or you're lucky to have me. Being soft, backing down and being honest or self-conscious wasn’t his style. She'd never seen her husband do it throughout their entire marriage.

  Once, he'd come home in a rage, tossing furniture and kicking holes in the wall, because a restaurant had declined his reservation. The reason? They were fully booked. Simple, an everyday situation for a busy restaurant. His thoughts? 'They wouldn’t let me in; my money isn't fucking good enough for them.' Rationality never entered the equation for Richard and, on that night, he'd forced himself on her. She'd bled for several hours afterwards and couldn’t walk straight for days, but he never once admitted he was wrong for thinking the way he did, was wrong for overreacting in that way.

  Not once did it occur to Richard that he was declined a reservation because of his attitude. Lisa spoke to the restaurant manager a week later and the reason had been simple – he'd called the manager a useless nigger. He hadn't returned since, permanently banned. Lisa remembered them making a decent lobster bisque and cursed Richard for ruining one of her social events for her.

  No, Richard wasn’t the self-conscious type. He didn’t care that he chugged five-thousand calories a day, polished off a crate of Red Bull within hours, and could eat seven courses without getting full. A gym never entered his mind; his health wasn't a concern for him as it was for her or his extended family. He was blissfully oblivious to the concerns of others, not a care in the world.

  Which is why this reaction was strange. It was new.

  Which is why Lisa wasn't ready when he grabbed her hair and yanked her towards the deep fat fryer.

  Lisa stumbled, slipping on the floor, and banged her head the island. A blast of pain shot through her body as her temple opened up, spilling blood down her forehead. Richard, both hands full of her dark hair, spat in her face. She felt the phlegm splatter her left cheek, blinding her temporarily. She tried to get her hands to her face, to wipe away the sputum, but his hands blocked her, rendering her helpless.

  "You fucking whore. You think you can cheat on me and get away with it? You're a dead woman." Richard's eyes darkened with rage and hatred, the red rings around them betraying his lack of a decent diet. The sweat was rolling down his face, glistening on his greasy stubble.

  In that moment, Lisa cursed herself for being fooled so easily. The control, the tempo – all gone within a second. He hadn't believed one word; he'd suckered her in.

  "I'll show you what we do to cheating sluts like you."

  Lisa's eyes widened as the smell of spitting oil became pungent. She was a foot away from the fryer; she could feel the spatter of hot oil on her forearms. She kicked out, swinging like a pendulum from Richard's hands, his weight a solid foundation: She wasn't going anywhere with that grip.

  Richard punched Lisa in the face, her jaw exploded with agonising pain. She felt two teeth loosen and blood once again sluiced down her throat. She tried to spit it out but found a muffled scream of absolute terror choking her. Her body sagged, dead weighting in her husband's abusive hands. Richard pulled her closer to the fryer.

  "Now, you'll be pleased to know … I'm not going to kill you. That would be too easy. It's like letting you off the hook for your crimes. I always thought the death penalty was somewhat of an anticlimax so no, I'm not going to kill you."

  "What …" Lisa spoke through loosened teeth and blood bubbles. "What do you want …?"

  "I don't want anything. I think you should be honoured though. Despite you fucking another man, hell, other men, I still find it in myself to fuck you every morning. Am I afraid to catch something? Not really. The chances of me catching colon cancer from saturated fat is higher than catching an STD from someone who shot his load inside you. I fuck you because it's my husbandly duty. Is that even a word? Husbandly … hell, I'll take it."

  "Richard … you don’t have to … you don’t have to do this."

  "Oh, but I do. You see, sometimes I read. I read of an act that took place in the early days, back before society took shape. Ever heard of the Scarlet Letter?" Lisa shook her head, blood dripping from her lips. "Anyway, when an adulteress was discovered, they would publically humiliate her by making her wear a red letter on her chest. It was a symbol of adultery and anyone who saw it, would know she was a cheating whore, so to speak."

  Lisa wobbled and fell to her knees. "I have heard of it … Richard, if we can talk … please …"

  "Fuck you, whore. You think I'm letting you off easy? I ain't pinning no red letter to your chest. But I'm going to scar you for life. You see, you'll be known as the woman who cheated on her millionaire husband and lived to tell the tale. Only … yes, that works. Only with half a face."

  Richard glanced at the fat. "Looks nice and hot, doesn’t it? Was fresh this morning. I think we need to test it." He tossed Lisa against the upended table. She groaned at her newfound freedom. The pain surged through her hair as the strands nestled back in their roots.

  Her husband scooped up a pair of tongs and poked the contents of the fryer. "Yes, that will do perfectly. Yo, wifey? W
ant something to eat before we go ahead with our 'branding?'"

  Lisa said nothing, she simply gibbered on the floor, her face swelling. Her brain felt like it was on fire. She struggled to sit up and fell back into place.

  "No? That’s a shame." Richard scooped his wife up and held her face inches from the fryer. "It's a shame because you always did like a deep fried Twinkie."

  Lisa's eyes opened and she screamed a guttural howl, one that rocked the walls of the house. In the basket, covered in yellow, bubbling oil was Twinkie's head. Her Labrador stared up at her from the depths of the cookery lava, its one remaining eye whitened from the heat. The skin blistered and cracked, oozing boiled blood between the haphazard dabs of flour and homemade batter. Blobs of fat and skin floated in the oil, circling the dog's head like small boats around an island. Twinkie's ear billowed, riding the hot waves of oil, flapping like a fleshy flag.

  "I'm going to burn your fucking face off and there's nothing you can do about it."

  Lisa stared at Twinkie, remembering the pet's unbridled affection. Remembering that the last few ounces of love and caring in her life had come from the mutilated dog. As the heat started to singe her skin, and the glazed orb started to expand to popping point, watching her and judging for her not protecting it better, Lisa gave up on life. Her marriage was never going to end and, as a result, she would suffer. The mercy of death would not come and the protection of the outside world would not follow. Instead, she would be a branded woman, a whore, for a crime she never committed – one that existed in her husband's brain because he had an ego the size of Texas.

  "Do it, you fucker." Lisa said, resigned.

  And her husband did.

  He shoved the left side of her face into the fat, placing it against the dead dog's head, lowering it below the surface, the oil spitting and crawling along her flesh, searing Lisa's face. Had she worn makeup, it would have burned more. Lisa refused to scream, she let the white-hot agony bolt through her veins, in fear that opening her mouth would result in permanent damage to her tongue and tonsils. She listened to her skin bubble, felt it crack as it split open, pouring her blood into the fryer. Her lips congealed, sealed, the flesh blistering together. She closed her eyes against all will and reason, the temptation to open them and witness the torture overbearing. Would she lose sight in this eye?