Descent Into Madness
He had thrust her out on the terrace and locked her out, screaming and kicking.
“You’re crazy! What are you talking? I not take your money,” she yelled at him in her broken English. “Chester... Chester,” she called him back again and again, pounding on the glass door, “Open the door, open now.”
How dare he accuse her of stealing his money, how dare he? She didn’t even know what he was referring to.
He went back in the bedroom, searching around for the box where he’d stashed his cash, rummaging through her closets and drawers, throwing everything out. He had to have a drink. He was broke, hadn’t made a penny at the Sunday flea market where he sold all kinds of knick-knacks. He started drinking upon waking in the morning, still inebriated from the previous night. She’d badgered him in her bad English as soon as he got back home, late, reeking of booze. Where was he again? Where did he find the money to drink? How could he treat her like this?
She got up at dawn, after waiting for him all night, not sleeping a wink. In fact, she hadn’t had a full night sleep in days. Her brain was always swarming, her thoughts always jostling. How could she have been so wrong about this man? She was sure she’d found her protector at last—the man of her dreams—charming, good-looking, and such a good lover. He was going to take care of her, give her the security she yearned for.
How quickly things changed. He came short of all her expectations, badly failed her in every way, like every other man in her life, really. He lost his umpteenth job right after they married, went back hitting the bottle shortly after, made terrible scenes every time someone smiled at her. Her parents would be ashamed of her, marrying a loser, again. This time, she picked him—a drunken redneck, worse than her first husband in many ways. This one didn’t hesitate to shove her around, humiliate her, and even punish her for trying to prevent him from drinking. Not in the morning, she implored him. She only wanted to help him, rescue him from himself. Now she knew not to trust him, ever.
She didn’t know how long he kept her on the terrace, prisoner in her own home—worse yet, captive in her head. She tried to force the windows open: all shut tight. Then she watched him leave the apartment, knocked louder, begged, and cried hysterically. Hours went by. She was still in her nightgown, barefoot, cold, and enraged.
It was gray and drizzly that March morning, didn’t feel like spring yet. The city, across the Hudson, emerged like tattered slabs of steel in the fog, the crests of the Empire State Building and World Trade Center indiscernible, decapitated. She was going to catch her death but what did he care, the bastard. Oh, that’s it! She’d had it. She loathed her limitations, weakness, gender. But it was no good simply resenting her fate, she was going to turn things around on her own, never again look up to a man for security. She wasn’t stupid. Others had done it. An engulfing rage boiled inside her, a spattering cauldron drowning every last sparkle of awareness.
How long was she glued, like a fly, stuck against the glass pane of the terrace door, after her ranting and raving had died? She couldn’t tell. Her body had turned numb, before her mind froze in a paralyzing wrath, hostage of its relentless and obsessive chatter. When she finally saw him enter the apartment, she didn’t budge, followed his every step—eyes unblinking—through the small foyer, galley kitchen, dining-area, toward the terrace door. He’d had his drink; his blank gaze said it all. A taste of bile filled her mouth.
He put a hand on the handle, waited for her to back off to let her in. Instead, she threw herself at him with unexpected fury, shouting a torrent of words he didn’t understand, tried to beat him, scratch him, bite him. He held her back with both hands, arms outstretched, leaning forward to steady her, his heavy putrid breath filling her nostrils.
Suddenly she spat at him, ejecting a mouthful of saliva and spleen with all the strength and contempt she could muster. The thick, foul spittle hit him smack in the face and that’s when he slapped her, hard, sent her flying across the room. She stood back up in a flash, rushed to open the entrance door wide, went after him again, and pushed him out, her eyes popping out of her head, hissing wildly for him to get out, forever, out of her life.
She slammed the door after him, ran into her bedroom, got dressed feverishly, and called her daughter, twice. The second time, she let it all out, vomiting all the nauseating rage, frustration, and despair heaped high inside her.
How long was she glued, like a fly, stuck against the glass pane of the terrace door, after her ranting and raving had died? She couldn’t tell. Her body had turned numb, before her mind froze in a paralyzing wrath, hostage of its relentless and obsessive chatter. When she finally saw him enter the apartment, she didn’t budge, followed his every step—eyes unblinking—through the small foyer, galley kitchen, dining-area, toward the terrace door. He’d had his drink; his blank gaze said it all. A taste of bile filled her mouth.
He put a hand on the handle, waited for her to back off to let her in. Instead, she threw herself at him with unexpected fury, shouting a torrent of words he didn’t understand, tried to beat him, scratch him, bite him. He held her back with both hands, arms outstretched, leaning forward to steady her, his heavy putrid breath filling her nostrils.
Suddenly she spat at him, ejecting a mouthful of saliva and spleen with all the strength and contempt she could muster. The thick, foul spittle hit him smack in the face and that’s when he slapped her, hard, sent her flying across the room. She stood back up in a flash, rushed to open the entrance door wide, went after him again, and pushed him out, her eyes popping out of her head, hissing wildly for him to get out, forever, out of her life.
She slammed the door after him, ran into her bedroom, got dressed feverishly, and called her daughter, twice. The second time, she let it all out, vomiting all the nauseating rage, frustration, and despair heaped high inside her.
Chapter 20 - Tricks of Her Mind (Excerpts) from The Road From Morocco by Wafa Faith Hallam (Available online in Print and eBook)
