Purged

He collapsed into the chair next to the open window and whispered to himself, “What have I done?”
As if in answer, the storm without broke in full fury with a shrieking wind that seemed to echo the maelstrom that had torn through the room only moments before. Never in all the years that they’d been married would he have believed Kathleen to be capable of such carnage. Her petite five feet five inches, one hundred pound frame had been a veritable whirlwind of destruction as she had unleashed all the demons from her personal hell.
“You’re nothing!” She had screamed. “You’ve never been anything and you never will be!”
At six feet even and a muscular two hundred pounds, the last thing Frank should have been doing was cowering but he was. He dodged and hid as projectiles pursued each other about the room. Her ferocity increased with each new weapon she sought to dispel at him.
“I’m leaving! I’ve had enough! Twelve years! And for what? To support someone who’s too damned weak to face the reality of life? Well, you can forget it! I’m out of here! Now!” Her sky blue eyes were flashing with a pain that he had never witnessed. Or never chosen to. Her shoulder length jet black hair snapped with each jerking movement of her lithe body. The vehemence of her words had been more accurate in aim than any of the blows she had attempted to rain down on him.
Now, seated in the chair, her words, sharp and justified, had finally penetrated his soul. Within himself he felt a desolation that surpassed any other. His weakness had, in fact, overcome his strengths and ruined what had been a fairy tale life. Now, like the cold dark silence from without, there was nothing.
He stumbled through the ruins of the room attempting to make his way to the door. For a moment he could only stop and stare. Kathleen’s torment had ended in her slamming through the entrance with such fury that the hinges had been loosened and the door stood slightly ajar on an angle.
Glancing momentarily at his attire he noticed that his checked shirt and blue jeans were damp with sweat and other fluids and cigarette ashes were scattered without. There was a tear on his left elbow from where he had caught it on a loose nail in the window sill and his socks seemed to have disappeared.
As he continued along his path, the phone jangled as he tripped over it. He glanced down and noticed a torn piece of card next to it. He stared at it for a moment then started to dial.
An eternity later. Another chair next to an open window. There seemed to be gentle tones around him but he was oblivious to them. Separate, at least, until he felt a short pull on his arm.
“Hi.” He started chokingly. “My name’s, uh, my name’s Frank.”
“Hi Frank.” There was warmth in the myriad of voices that greeted him.
“I’m an, uh, - an alcoholic.”