Isabella's revenge

EDITOR'S CHALLENGE:
Write a vignette (1,000 words or less) about a long suffering wife who snaps and does something dastardly to her abusive, cheating husband. Submit it to the Drama newsletter. The best one will win a "Drama" merit badge.



Claudia McCray knew there was a certain amount of danger with each step she climbed, but it was her job, and Isabella needed her. Shortly after delivering the papers at the courthouse she had received a call on her cell phone. It was Isabella Endicott begging for help.

Claudia raced from the courthouse and hailed a cab. The apartment complex where Isabella and her husband lived was part of the projects section of southwest D.C.  When she arrived she found several black men sitting on the steps outside. They made angry comments at her as she climbed the steps. Inside residents were coming out of their apartments standing on the stairs and landing staring at the apartment on the third floor.

“You here to help Isabella, again?” An elderly black woman asked. “Ain’t you done enough to her?” 

The inhabitants of the apartment building allowed her to pass. They stared at her. Claudia could see it in their faces, the question—the question that haunted her as well. At the top of the stairs, just past the open landing littered with trash bags, was the apartment she sought. The stench of rotting garbage stung her nostrils. Rats ran freely down the hallway. She could hear the woman inside was being beaten. She pounded on the ugly gray apartment door. 

“Open the door! Isabella! Open the door,” she cried.

Frantically she pulled her cell phone from her purse and dialed the number again.

“Yes, I called ten minutes ago for police protection. This is Claudia McCray, there is a woman being beaten…” she paused as the 911 operator asked her to identify the situation. “Domestic violence. Look, I need some help here…” again she paused as the operator repeated the address. It was not a location that the police hurried too. 

Inside the apartment the woman was thrown against the wall. Isabella crumbled onto the dirty floor. She resembled a rag doll lying lifeless in her own blood. The man’s fury was finally spent. He walked to the window. He leaned against the windowsill drawing deep breaths of the city’s hot air. His stained t-shirt clung with perspiration to his hairy chest. His knuckles were raw and bleeding.  He could hear someone pounding on the apartment door, but it meant little to him.

On the street below, a small gathering once interested in the petite white woman wearing a raincoat and high heels that entered the building, was now moving out of the way for the police cars. The man saw them arrive. He smirked at the flashing lights and sirens.

“You’re too late, you stupid sons of bitches!”  He yelled down at the cops exiting their cars and racing into the building.  “I took care of the bitch already.”  Turning back to his wife’s crumpled body he spat on her.  “I taught her who was boss around here.”  He stepped toward her, screaming his abuse. “Tell me who I can see! Tell me when I need to come home! You don’t tell me nothing, bitch.  It’s your own fault, anyway.”

He walked into the kitchen and slung open the old refrigerator door pulling out a beer and popping the top.

“If you’d been a woman to me I wouldn’t have to go out to get it. Stupid bitch, it’s all your fault.”

He leaned against the window frame in the kitchen peering out at the cops. He’d have to go to jail again. Damn it, that woman causes more trouble then she’s worth.

In the living room, Isabella stirred. She could hear the pounding on the door not four feet away from her. She knew it was her social worker. Claudia had warned her not to return to the apartment, but she had returned. Returned to give him the last chance he’d ever have to change his life, to save their marriage, to see the kids.

Isabella moved slowly. The pain was horrible. Worse than when she gave birth, worse than any beating he’d given her before, and worse than she would have ever imagine. Her arm was broken, most likely some ribs and her hip felt out of place as she pulled herself up the wall to stand.  The room spun and she braced herself against the wall. She could reach the door and unlock it, allowing Claudia and the police to come get him. But, it would be like before. A night in jail and then he’d be back. He’d find her and the kids no matter what the social worker told her. She knew he’d never stop.

She moved toward the kitchen dragging her left foot and holding her arm against her body. He would never hurt her or the children again. She had made up her mind. It would end now.

He was still yelling out the window at the cops and drinking his beer and gloating about his advantage over her. Bragging to the cops about how he’d killed her once and for all. Daring them to come and get him.  He turned when he heard the drawer open. He was surprised to see that she was standing, that she was alive, but when she pointed the gun at him, he laughed.

“You don’t have the balls,” he spat at her, throwing his head back to drain the beer.

She pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced his Adam’s apple, shattering his neck and spreading blood against the window.  She watched as he blinked in disbelief clutching his throat as beer and blood ran from the wound. He feel backwards crashing through the kitchen window and falling to the street below.

Isabella dropped the gun and clutched her arm against her side again. She made her way over to the window. His broken body lay on the street below. The cops peered up at her. The smile on her face was unmistakable.