I maintain eyecontact out of spite, her big green eyes staring back at me in dismay while I uncork the whiskey bottle. She begins to cry, silently, as I pour the amber coloured liquid into my glass.
"I can't watch this.", she says, and walks out of the kitchen snibbling all over herself like a baby. I chuckled quietly to myself at her pathethic behaviour, swirling the glass gently. Well, bottoms up. The spirit gives me the familiar sting on its way down, and then delivers that wonderful aftertaste. I followed after her, abandoning the glass but taking the bottle.
Her voice was quiet, almost sobbing. She were trying to be discreet whilst telling her fuckin' lies. My ear pressed against the toilet door as I listened to her slander me to her friends, or mother, it didn't really matter. She were in there for atleast fourty minutes, and when she came out I waited for her in the living room. The bottle was half empty at this point.
"Who did you talk to?"
She gasped, her breath almost escaping her. I could just barely see the blue hue sticking stretching itself across her neck from under her collar - I had made a habit of hitting her where people can't see.
"Well?"
"No one.", she said.
"That's..-" I felt the rage building up, but I managed to supress it, speaking as calmly as I could. My voice came out cold and threatening.
"You know that's a fuckin' lie, baby. Why do you always lie to me?"
I stood up, and she recoiled, taking a step back. My hand reached out and cupped her chin, as I turned her face to look directly at me. I felt her tremble as I towered above her, another drink went down my throat before I spoke again.
"You know I love you right, baby? That's why.. That's why it hurts so much, when you l.." Another drink, and the rage built up before I finished my sentence, increasing the volume of my voice as a result.
"Lie to me."
In the very same moment, the door opened. My wife and I stood still inches from eachother as our son entered the living room, pausing on his way to his room. He undoubtedly layed eyes on the bottle, first thing.
"Hey. Is everything alright?" he said, cautiously. I turned my face to look at him, smiling as genuinely as I could.
"Of course, son. Go to your roo-.."
"Your father's drunk again." My gaze snapped back to my wife, locking onto her like a guided missile. She always had more courage when our son was in the same room, but this time I didn't let it slide. My free hand delivered a palm slap with such force that she fell to the floor following the thunderous sound of the impact, whimpering. Of course, the heroic son came rushing to her aid. As he helped her up his eyes stared back at me with vile hatred, I simply smirked and finished the bottle.
"Why don't you call James, and go spend the night there, as you have so many times before? Hell, you could even fuck him again."
My wife slammed the bedroom door in response, but my son came marching over to me. I could see what he was up to, and embraced him with one arm when he tried to tackle me. I nearly fell over, but managed to restrain myself from hitting him back, that is until he unexpectedly punched me square in the face, my nose cracking just slightly. Almost instinctively, my impulses kicked in, and I swung the empty whiskey bottle for his head. The deep sound of the impact was brutal, and the young man fell to the floor with an instant gushing wound from his head. His cry of pain relieved me, though, I hadn't instantly killed him. Fuck, now he started crying aswell. I need some peace, and quiet.
I turned the car keys and floored the gas, the tires screeching as I were catapulted backwards, the car heaving itself out in the middle of the road. A quick gear shift shot us forward and I began driving towards the city. The lights and facades of buildings passed me by like a blur, and I lost track of time.
The following morning I woke up from my phone ringing. My heavy eyes forced themselves to open as I were greeted by a nice puddle of vomit covering my wheel and thighs. I stumbled out of the car holding my phone, noticing I had parked perfectly nicely on the side of the road last night. The phone clicked as I answered.
"Yes?"
"Is this Richard Matteson?"
"Yes, that's me."
"Sir, we need you to come to the station."
"Why?"
"Your wife has committed suicide, and your son is in a coma."