Regrets can provide important life lessons.
The most important lesson in The Gutter? Don't push the wrong buttons.
The most important lesson in The Gutter? Don't push the wrong buttons.
Counterblow by María C. Domínguez
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Saturday night and I was off doing the pub rounds with Sarah. I wanted
to celebrate my new status. I was no longer a failure, an
outcast, becoming a father had changed it. Besides, I really needed to wind
down. Working all day and doing night shifts to keep Sarah happy was killing
me. Everything has a price, I guess.
She was sweet and chatty, as always, before drinking. Dressed in a tight
transparent top and revealing mini skirt that I hated, she started her
incessant chatter. Telling me how she had bumped into her ex a few days ago and
how attractive he was. A true gentleman, a self-made man, who had a chain of
lottery shops across the country. He was rolling in money.
“I´d have been better off if I´d settled with him, Georgie. He´d have
made a queen of me eh,” she said, pinching me fiercely.
She really knew how to take a stab at me. We were already in our fourth
pub when she started her usual arguments. Her swearing would end in a full-blown
wrestling match, between me, the bottle, and whoever got in our way. Until we´d
be thrown out.
But this night Sarah was different. Her eyes were fiery, her body tense
as if ready to pounce. She hurled a bottle at me, giggled hysterically at my
stammering white face, and yelled, “You’re crap, Georgie, look at him, he´s not
even half a man….”
Dumped in the street, I could take it no more. Swaggering and drunk, I forced
her back home. She gave in despite her unflagging strength and continued
laughing.
“Guess what, you´ll never be a father now, ye know, ye know. I’ve done
with it.” She fell on the floor once we crossed the front door, so inebriated that
she crawled to the stairs and stayed put on the bottom step.
“Hey, get up, will ye? What did you say?” I said, incredulous to her last
words.
“The baby, it’s n-o-t-t-h-e-r-e,” she replicated, slurring her words. Her
eyes were two black smudges. She swiped at a trickle of saliva that was falling
off her chin.
“Poor little baby,” she said, looking pathetically at me.
“What the? It can´t be…..”
“Oh, never mind, Georgie. The baby wasn´t yours anyway.” She said,
throwing off her black stilettos with virulence.
I couldn´t face it. Failure thudded in my head. I felt an acrid taste pricking
my tongue. My eyes, wet and burning, couldn´t focus. My life aborted in a
second. This woman—my lover, a murderer—had fucked me up.
I slapped her face. I could feel her tentacles trying to grab me. “Go up,”
I said.
“No, I won´t. What are you going to do? Hit me? Eh eh? Kill me?” she
began to sob insistently.
Before I knew it, I had dragged that thing all the way up, slammed the
door shut, and pushed her with all my strength. She fell and hit her head
against a sharp edge. Blood gushed from her mouth. She whimpered loudly.
I felt powerful now. The monster would get what it deserved. My son would
be avenged. With yet another powerful blow, the body, just flesh and bone
bathed in red, was silenced forever.
