The Short Story Competition

Addiction

Perhaps I understand him too well. I know him more than he could possibly realise, and we are bound together by it. I'm perched on the edge of the bath tub; one hand grips the side to stop myself from sliding off. I reach over to slowly ease down the toilet lid without even a mouse's footstep of a tap. I only risk it at all because I can't bear the sight and smell of his dark urine, festering in the toilet bowl, far more potent than the clean reek of ammonia when I've been over-zealous with cleaning product. Just as cautiously, careful not to make a sound, I rip off a square of toilet paper to dab my eyes, as red as his. And then I wait. Sitting in silence while he beats the door with his fists and feet and anything within reach to throw, I watch as the door trembles in horror as it clings desperately to its frame. From the other side, he rants at the impassive wood in fury. My skin is hardened and thickened, as oblivious to the meanings of the individual words as the glossy door. He curses and swears, venting all his rage. He gasps his breath, struggling to get enough oxygen to fuel the strength of his consuming emotion. "Fucking bitch" he spits at the door, which lurches in it's frame in fright as something thuds against it. There follows a smaller thud as whatever it is slides meekly to the floor, a tool in his anger. "Fucking bitch" he repeats, panting breathily, quieter now. The door shifts again as he leans his body against it. I hear the drag and squeak of clothes and skin against the painted surface as he slides down to the floor, leaning heavily against the door. "Why do you make me do this?" he gasps, and there is one last muted thud as he throws something again, away from the bathroom and away from us.

There's absolute silence. I hold my breath, squeeze my eyes shut, waiting, heart jumping with anticipation. And then there's his stuttery breathing, squeezed out in little gasps. His body shudders wearily with grief and shame, and the door, supporting his large back, shudders in empathy. I slither off the edge of the bath slowly, crawling on hands and knees towards the door. I wait there, listening. I tentatively reach up to tug back the bolt, wincing at the sound, hang on the handle and let the door creep shyly inwards. My body is immediately there to take his weight in place of the door, as I wrap my arms around him, pulling myself into him, knees either side of his body. He flinches for a moment at my touch, ready to cast me aside, but then, as I pull myself tighter in, pressing my cheek against his solid back, turning my face and burying it in the cushioning of his jumper, inhaling the scent of the washing powder I use, he relaxes. As he relents, leaning back on me, he slumps so that his head tucks beneath my chin, and I kiss his hair, damp with the perspiration of emotion. I squeeze him tighter still in my embrace, wrapping my dressing gown as far around him as I can, whispering soothingly into his hair, "I didn�t mean to," kissing the top of his head again and repeating, almost imploring, "I didn't mean to. I would never� mean to." He twists round to position himself side-on, nestled in my arms like a little boy, upturned face with damp salty cheeks. He reaches up to pull my head in and we clamp our lips together with sudden desperate urgency. My face is stinging from the tears, raw now where his stubble scrapes my skin. My lips feel bruised, pressed between his lips and my teeth. I grab at him, kissing him harder, tugging his hair. I understand him alright. I know what it's like to need though you know it�s harmful; you know you will never satisfy the full extent of your craving, not before you cause yourself irreparable damage. I love him to the point of addiction. Both of us, him and I, are victims of our own addictions; we share that trait even if we are losing everything else.

I am not one of those women who's a serial victim; always with the same type of brutal men. There's only ever been one man, only him. Sometimes I think I've had enough of it all, but I'm a fool if I think I'll ever leave him. He needs me, maybe not as much as he needs the drink, or maybe more so because of it. And when he loves me, and his vulnerability gushes through his harsh armor, ripping it off in chunks as it flows, it's painfully obvious how deeply we need each other. How much we're the same. I know what I'm doing, I know exactly what I'm letting myself in for with him. I have no choice, I need him. Don't think I can be analysed and that the cause of my 'self-punishment' can be traced back to my childhood or any of that psycho-babble. My parents are decent people, sensible professionals. Teachers, both of them. Funny they could never quite manage to engage their own child with the same easy skills as they did other people's children; but then I suppose they always say that's the way with teachers.

As quickly as his passion flared, now it dies, used up. He pushes me away distractedly, his head drooping in battle weary exhaustion. Jenny says he's pickled his bits with the alcohol, and that's why me and him never get very far. I always snigger before quickly changing my tune, defending him heatedly, when it's good, it's very good. I push him forward, struggling to my feet and helping him to his. I lead him downstairs, coaxing him like a sick child to the couch. I kiss him on the forehead and fetch him a shot of whisky swirling in the bottom of a large glass that he can sip at sulkily from the warmth of the couch. I know he's had more than enough today, I know that's where all our problems stem from, but as he's already gone this far I don't see the problem with letting him have a small bit more to soothe himself, helping him to gently drift off into a relaxed sleep. With him mollified I can scurry round setting the house right again following the storm. God knows when there'll be another one, other than soon. And then I snuggle next to him, lifting the dead weight of his arm to get under it, resting my head on his chest. Submerged in sleep he kisses my head lightly and carries on sleeping there, chin resting on me. The weight and sharpness of it is uncomfortable, and I wonder if I was mistaken to tuck myself into his body, trapping myself like this; but then with a sigh of resignation, nearing contentment, we doze together for a while, our bodies oscillating, synchronized by the movement of sleeping breaths. The clock always ticks sharply on, irrespective of any chaos in our home, that is, unless it has been flung from the wall.

We stir, I'm not sure who first, and I realise he's dribbled on my head, and I've dribbled on his chest. I wipe both surreptitiously as he rolls me off to stagger, groaning and cracking his bones to the bathroom. With a jolt I'm suddenly aware that I have to rush or I'll be late for work. We've had some sleep at least. I re-arrange the cushions on the couch while I wait for him to vacate the bathroom, beating them plump again like smacking a naughty child good again. He goes to the kitchen and I hesitate before going upstairs to get ready, watching him sway between the kettle and the glass bottle on the counter. The bottle wins. I hurry upstairs before I get caught staring. I am late enough that I am limited to splashing my face with water, scraping my hair back and securing it tightly. I don�t have time to do more to cover up the extent of how I've been sapped and drained by the vampire that is his rage. At the last minute I shove my blusher into my handbag, hoping to have a moment before I have to face people at the school.

He's not always this bad; he has certainly got worse, but even now he has good and bad days. I suppose he probably drinks every day, but not always to excess and sometimes he can hold it better, and then you'd never even know unless you were close enough to smell it on him. Having said that I can only presume as I watch him conscientiously skew the water to alcohol ratio of his blood that he smells of it; I'm sure I'm desensitised to the odor now. Part of me thanks God we�ve been unable to have children; I would be eaten up with guilt every waking moment if we'd brought babies into this screwed up life. They'd be as deranged as us before they'd grown enough to open their eyes. Although the tremor in my womb whispers that maybe we'd be ok if it hadn't happened. I can't remember now, was he already drinking before the miscarriage? I stumble through the day, the children's eyes pierce through my fa�ade, scorn my lack of preparation for every lesson. They take advantage of my weakness, perceiving accurately that today I'm even weaker than normal. I'm aching to go home to him, and hide in bed with him, feeling his weight on me. For that moment I would know without doubt that he's mine, that he wants me as much as I want him. Huddling together like hibernating hedgehogs during the long winter. How long could we stay ensconced in bliss before the shadow comes down and he disappears to search for something to numb his body and mind to oblivion? Never long.

Shattered, swamped with relief and dread, after an interminably long day, I push against the front door and creep in. I feel like I should get permission to be there. I wish I could know before I step fully in the house, see the aura through the bricks and cement, gauge his temperament at this moment in time. The house is still and quiet. With no immediate onslaught my gut begins to relax but my skin continues to tingle, sensitive to the silence, attempting to interpret the atmosphere. I prowl through our home, collecting empty cans. So he's been out at least today, unless he got them from a secret stash hidden in the house. I lurk downstairs for a while, like a wild animal it's best to let him come to me. After a while I can't stand the anticipation, the hairs on the back of my neck won't relax from their state of heightened awareness until I know where he is, what he's doing, what I need to prepare myself for. I hold the bottom of the banister tightly, one foot on the first step, scrunching bare toes into the carpet and loosening them, fidgeting with nervousness. My breathing is steady but restrained as I begin the uncertain ascent. Each step cries beneath my feet, warning me not to take another. It takes an age to climb. I hesitate, wobbling cautiously on the threshold of our bedroom, and inch slowly in. He's not in there. I can see through the open door that he's not in the bathroom either. The door to the spare room is closed, staring blankly at me as I return it's stare. I edge towards the room, hand outstretched reaching for the handle. As I push the door open I croak his name softly. Peering into the room it takes me a moment to register the contents; the curtains are pulled shut and the room is bathed in shadowy darkness. It's empty. I release the air from my lungs in a rush and return downstairs, calling out to him as I go, just to make sure.

I pull a stool up to the kitchen counter, flinching slightly as a bruised knee makes contact with the wood, and sit, with a cup of tea and my book. The relief at not finding him at home stewing in his anger as he waits for me, is replaced by the terrible anticipation of waiting at home, not knowing when he will he walk through the door looking for me, the recipient to his cathartic fury. Eventually the worry for myself turns to concern for him. I turn off the stove, lifting the hot saucepan onto a cool gas ring at the back. I go to the window, watching as the wind plays cruelly with the Autumn leaves, which rustle and crackle in panic, flung this way and that. The drive is empty as usual; his car hasn't been there for weeks. One day he came home without it; I didn't comment. It didn't really affect me enough to provoke him over it. The biggest difference was that I couldn't hear the warning rumble of the engine to announce his arrival, but then it's rare that he is out and I am home anyway. I'm starting to miss him. I know I'm pathetic. The cravings for him are growing stronger already; not for anything in particular, just to be with him. I've always had an addictive personality; almost by the time I'd dragged myself off the habit of sucking my thumb I was smoking. 'Orally fixated', Freud would diagnose; my mother weaned me too early or too late, or something. I go upstairs, collecting a towel from the airing cupboard en route to the bathroom and lean over the bath to twist on the taps. Through the clear water his eyes stare up at mine coldly from a face that is smooth and uncharacteristically passive. Any sound that may have been tempted to burst out of my mouth stays lodged in my throat. Blood rushes to my face and my stomach heaves as for a moment I am paralysed. I lunge forward to heave his heavy and waterlogged head out of the water, kissing his lifeless lips. By forced abstinence my addiction will be cured.