Young Writers Society

035. Epiphany

By Angel of Death

The morphine didn't kick in yet. Paul held the beer bottle to his head. Hands smudged in sweat and grease. He breathed in and out, like a choo-choo train, as Stacy rubbed his shoulders. Every coil in his back was untangling and soon, the long day in the garage was forgotten. The chill of her small, slender fingers soothed him to a certain extent. He could still see his landlord's face. Large, black cockroach eyes and a mouth that moved faster than the motors he put in cars. Though he would never admit it, he was scared of the man, in all his robust glory. He was like God. He controlled what happened next in his life. If he got put out now, Stacy would leave him. She'd pack up her smell, her smile, and her heart, and leave. He couldn't have that. Not when they were growing so close to each other. Not when he loved her more than life itself. Paul reached up until he found one of her hands. He dragged it to his lips and kissed it over and over.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"I just..." he could feel them now. They were coming. They were kicking and screaming their way out. They were hot and heavy and wet. They slid down his cheek and dripped onto Stacy's hand. She moved from behind him and sat on his lap, wrapping her free arm gently around his waist.

"Paul, everythings gonna be alright. You'll see."

"I wish I could believe that, Stace. I really do wish that. But times is rough. I can't rub two cents together and my pockets are wearing thin. They ain't paying me enough at that dang ol' garage and we have to have six-hundred dollars by the end of the month."

"I can pick up another job. At least til..." she looked down. Her hand moved to her stomach and she kept rubbing it, until her palms were red. Paul looked up at her face, trying to catch the expression she was hiding. A tear fell from her eyes. She was crying too.

"I'll get another job til the doctor says I can't work no more."

"What do you mean?" Paul asked, setting the beer bottle on the table.

"I'm pregnant."

Bile rose in his throat. This was supposed to be a joyous thing. They was gonna bring another life into the world in nine months. They were gonna be parents. Parents who wouldn't be able to buy it formula and diapers all the time. Parents who would be gone all day trying to make ends meet. And Stacy was smiling. Stacy was grinning like the sun and the moon and the stars. She was all bright and happy and to make things worse, she hasn't been that way in weeks. Paul forgot how beautiful she looked when she was in a good mood. She looked almost like she did the first time he met her. All rosey cheeks and bright green eyes. Long wisp of butterscotch hair and a face you would never want to make cry. But Paul had already did that much. Over the years, he's already given her a few strands of gray hair and her skin is always pale and her eyes don't hold any light anymore. She can't even wear tank-tops or shorts like she used to. When he gets too drunk. When all he can feel is the haze and the numbness and the anger and the memories of how things used to be, he hits her. He beats her. He beats all of the pain out until he can't feel anything inside. And then he kisses her, hoping she'll forgive him. And though she's scared and tired of all of his nonsense, she stays. Now, with this child on the way, she'll have another reason to leave.

Her smiled disappeared.

"Aren't you happy?"

"I don't know. I really don't know."

"But, it's a baby. It's a..." she started, softly.

"It's another mouth to feed!" his voice reverberated throughout the small room.

Stacy shook her head, pain clear on her face. She slid off of his lap, with her head in her hands. She started pacing, sighing and crying, mumbling words against her wrists.

"I wish I never loved you." she whispered.

"Stace, don't talk like that!"

"Why not? You're not gonna want this...our child. You already said it. It's another mouth to feed. It. Paul, this a baby we're talking about. A little, innocent soul. And you say 'it'. This is not 'posed to be a bad thing. Oh, God."

"You think I don't know that. Stacy, you think I'm that stupid. I love you. Goddammit. I love you. And I want to give you everything your heart desires. I want to stop bringing you down. But I don't want you to leave me. This child is only gonna make things worse. Baby, can't you see? We ain't gonna be able to take care of it. We both work long hours and we can hardly feed ourselves. I'm just thinking rationally."

She looked at him. He looked at her. They were silent, their eyes wide and glassy. Paul grabbed another beer out of the fridge and started to gulp it down. This was the only true thing that could calm his nerves.

"So this is your solution. Drink. God, Paul, this is all you do. I don't think I want my baby to be around you in three months..."

"Three months?"

"Look, Paul..."

"Three freakin' months? You've been keeping this from me." The bottle fell from his hands and shards of bronze flew everywhere.

"I haven't been keeping anything from you. If you would really look sometime, you'd see that my stomach is bigger. God, you're always drunk and you don't notice me. I'm always having to come get you from the bar, always having to take your slaps and your hits and to tell you the truth, Paul, I'm tired. I'm tired of loving you. It makes my bones and my heart hurt. I can't take this anymore. I'm leaving."

He could see it now. She was glowing under the flickering yellow light and though her shirt was several sizes bigger than her, he could see the bulge of her stomach. His throat started to close up and soon his voice was consumed in a fit of more tears. He sunk to his knees, his hands pressing into the glass, cutting deeper and deeper, until it was apart of his blood.

Until it mixed with the words that Stacy said. I'm leaving. I'm leaving. I'm leaving. They played over and over in his mind like a broken record player. He could hear her footsteps sweeping across the floor, sounding like cicadas in the summer. It reminded him of when they went down to the lake and jumped in, with nothing but their socks on. The water was cold and tasted of childhood memories and salt. They would laugh and smile and kiss and touch until the sun drifted off into the hot yellow-pink sky. And soon the night would be there, bringing with her the stars and the cicadas. Ssss. Ssss. Ssss. But nothing about that sound was sweet now.

Stacy was leaving him.

"I'll be back in the morning to pick up my things. Goodbye, Paul." Her voice was shaky, filled with fear. He struggled to look up at her, his anger surging through his body like a wildfire. She was looking down at him, her hand pressed to her stomach. Paul glared at her. This wasn't the woman he fell in love with years ago. This wasn't the woman who kissed him and hugged him. This wasn't the woman who told him that she loved him. This wasn't the woman he loved. This was an impostor. This was a stranger.

He watched as she walked out the door, knowing that in the morning he'd be fine. Turning to the refrigerator, he pulled out the rest of what he had in his six-pack and went to his room.

Beer was the only true thing that could calm his nerves. It was the only thing that he loved.

Song: All the Pretty Faces by The Killers