The Devil's Pleasure

Men have always been a disappointment.

Ever since I was born, they’ve always abused me. Every single fucking one in my entire life. Childhood, it was my father who’d get so mind-numbingly drunk he’d beat the shit out of me and my mother. When I got older and he thankfully died, it turned into the assholes I’d dated who’d constantly belittle me, get so angry they’d smack me, but it always ended the same way. With some piss poor apology, and like the compliant, pleasing woman I was I’d accept it and move on, because as my mother would say “there’s no point dwelling on the past.”

Why should things be different now?

At least the abuse is predictable.

I knew from the moment Will stepped in the door, he was angry. I hustle the dog into my crafting room, and shut the door, turn off the scented oil diffuser, and make sure the beer I bought earlier is in the fridge. Sometimes, by doing this, I can deescalate another outburst from him.

I watch with cautious eyes from my seat on the couch as he crosses the kitchen, yanks open the fridge with a nasty expression on his face and pulls out the only thing he has ever loved. Alcohol. Ice cold beer that he sucks down like he’ll die without it.

He’s balding from stress, thin blond patches all over his head. Or it’s god’s way of punishing him. Either way, it makes me giddy inside to see him gaining some punishment for being the awful man he is. The man who tricked me, serenaded me with kisses and gentle promises to be different, and from the moment after we married, has been an abusive nightmare.

I almost wish he hadn’t noticed me before sitting down in his chair where he’ll stick a hand in his pants and jerk himself off to the Latina woman on the Spanish weather channel. He grimaces at me on his way to the living room.

“You let that fucking dog on the couch, again didn’t you?”

I shake my head, catching a glimpse of the small bit of fur I forgot to use the lint roller on, evidence of my lie. He sighs, clenches his jaw, fists tight at his sides, fingers turning purple around the bottle of beer in his firm grasp.

I close my eyes and let out a deep breath, waiting for what I know will come. And as predictable as ever, his hand collides with my cheek, followed by a horrendous sting. I bite my lip to keep from crying. Like I’ll give this fucker the satisfaction of my tears. I swallow the sobs in my throat and slowly open my eyes when the pain dulls.

“I’ll clean the hair,” I say and rise to grab the lint roller. He begins on another one of his vicious rants.

“You fucking dumb bitch, ya never listen. I tell you don’t let that furry piece of shit onto the couch and you do anyways.” He shakes his head and takes a swig after plopping in his chair. I seethe with anger next to the front door. I should just fucking leave. I want to, but this is all I’ve ever known, and I don’t expect much better.

Besides, he keeps all our finances within his control. I’d be homeless, and starving and he knows that. I take a deep breath and walk over to the couch. My back is tense, and my movements are choppy as I de-lint the couch, listening cautiously for his footsteps just in case he decides to deliver a blow from behind. When I don’t hear them, I let out a shaky breath and return the lint roller to the table beside the front door.

It’s a lazy night for him. I might get away with that slap and nothing more. I disappear to my craft room where our dog greets me with a wagging tail. I do my best to keep him gentle and friendly. It’s hard when Wilson hits him.

“It’s okay boy, it’s okay.”

He licks my throbbing cheek. I plop into my comfy chair and he jumps onto my lap. I’ll wait for Wilson to die the same way I waited for my father to die all my life. I sniffle as the thought of how pathetic my life is unfolds in my mind.

A loud crash drags me away from my misery momentarily. I jump up, pat Phoenix’s back and crack the door open, before slipping out into the hall. The living room is in shambles. Wilson wreaks havoc among our furniture, while his shattered phone is scattered along the hardwood floor.

I panic and watch him confusedly. He doesn’t care that I’m witnessing his rage. If anything this drives him to be more dramatic. He punches a whole in the wall, draws back a bloody fist and points his finger at me.

“You!”

There’s a coldness in his eyes, a morbid, haunting expression that chills me to my core. It’s the expression I haven’t seen in months, and I’ve been thankful to have been spared it. He leers towards me, and I scramble backwards.

“No,no,no. Please, Wilson! Please,” I beg. I twist and falter, grabbing a hold of the wall to steady me as I run back to my craft room where there’s a lock on the door, but he grabs my hair and yanks me backwards.

“Whatever I did, I’m sorry. Please!”

He pulls me into his chest, wrapping a vicious arm around me, and trailing his hand along my stomach. His touch makes me sick. I feel my insides twisting horribly and the urge to vomit settling in my throat.

He doesn’t listen.

“Wilson please, no! Let me go!”

“Fight some more, it’ll only make me harder.”

I squirm as he pushes his hips forward, jabbing me with his erection. I attempt to break from his grasp, but he holds me firmly.

“Go ahead and try to run, I’ll rip your fucking hair out,” He whispers with sweaty lips against my ear. I cringe as the smell of alcohol fills my nostrils. He stinks. The same way my father did.

“You don’t want to do this! Please, Wilson,” I belt. I plead with him, hoping to reach the man he once was forever ago. “I’m your wife! Please! I’ll never let you down!” I scream his vows at him. The one’s he made when he was a different person – or so I thought he was. He halts.

His hands are motionless, and I use this time to try and persuade him not to rape me.

I twist in his arms so I’m facing him. His arms have fallen to his sides, and I’m relieved that there’s no longer an angry pressure along my skull from where he was pulling my hair.

“I promise to love you and cherish you and honor you. I promise to be the man you chose to marry. Please, don’t do this,” I say defeated. I’d rather him beat me, then enter me. Not anymore. I’d rather die.

Our house phone rings, leaving him no time to decide. He growls and breaks away from me, stomping to answer the phone. He rips the phone up off the counter so hard, I’m sure it’ll fly across the room.

I’m shaking as I tip-toe back to the craft room and lock the chain I installed a few days ago. He never goes in here. When he realizes the locks on he’ll rip it off, but until then, I’m safe. Phoenix whines when I enter. I pet him, trying to calm him. I keep him in this room because if he attacks Wilson, I’m sure Wilson will kill him. He’s the only true companion I have that knows the truth about my husband. To everyone else, he’s the trusted, genuine senator who everyone loves. Not to me. He’s a monster behind closed doors.

I slump in my seat, eyes unfocused, roaming cautiously around the room as I try and calm my heavy breathing. Adrenaline courses through my veins. My head pounds angrily. He sounds disgruntled on the phone.

I reach for the other cordless phone on the desk beside me and bring it to my ear to listen to his conversation once I’ve settled my breathing. An unfamiliar voice barks order’s at him. I’m surprised.

“Come tomorrow, you better vote no.”

“I told you, I’m weighing all possible options,” Wilson replies, calmly. I want to laugh hysterically from how rational he’s acting. After almost raping his wife, he’s acting like he just came from Sunday School.

“No,no,no. That’s not what you’re doing here. You’re going to vote in our favor – you understand me, Mr. Carpenter. I don’t think you understand what happens to those who don’t obey, Dominico DeLuca.”

“I have an image to uphold. I can’t do anything to jeopardize my career, you need to understand that.”

“How about you worry about jeopardizing your life. Your career means nothing if you’re dead.”

The man curses at him in what I think is Italian and hangs up. I hang the phone up quickly, and double check that the door is locked. Thankfully it is. He’ll be pissed when he comes looking for me, but I don’t care. After that conversation, nothing will stop him from having his way with me.

I hear heavy footsteps in the hallway, and the twisting of the door handle. He pushes the door, but it doesn’t budge.

“Akira, did you put a fucking lock on this door? In my house….” His voice is domineering, condescending and haunting, like he’s the boogeyman and I’m a child hiding from him under a damn blanket. “Open this fucking door now, or I swear to god, I will rip it from the fucking hinges.”

I hold Phoenix in my arms and stare with wide eyes at the door. No, he won’t. He’s too lazy. He meets my expectations, and after slamming himself against the door a few times, he gives up, calls me a ‘cunt’ and saunters back to the living room where he’ll fall back asleep and piss himself.

I sigh.

“I guess I’m sleeping in here tonight with you,” I say to Phoenix. He sneezes and licks my face, before resting his head on my lap.

Wilson leaves early in the morning. I’m thankful. At least tomorrow he can’t get drunk here. We have a benefit to attend, and in public he’ll uphold his model husband image. Family man Wilson, his wife’s so lucky to have him. That’s what everyone says every time we go to one of those things. I day dream poisoning his drink when I’m there. I enjoy it though. It’s one of the only times he can’t beat me.

I unravel the folded-up throw blanket sitting on the ottoman beside my chair and drape it over us. I snuggle into the chair as much as I can with a dog on me, and close my eyes, willing the escape of sleep to come.

Tomorrow will be better.

I try to convince myself of this, but I have no true hope. What I do know is he’s got himself involved with some scary people. People that even scare him. I could tell by his submissive tone.

Dominico DeLuca.

I smile. A man that can make Wilson go from big bad wolf to little red riding hood.