A Little Drunk

         Laurie crept up the stairs on teetering tiptoes, a gentle, and distant giggle brewing in the depths of her skull as her shadow swayed back and forth in front of her in the dim light from one of the bedrooms.  Her fingers clutched to the bannister and she pulled herself higher. 

         The rest of the house slept in silence.  Not a creaking floorboard, chattering child, or disgruntled husband in sight, or earshot. 

         She smiled to herself and the gesture stuck to her features, aching in her cheeks, but without displeasure.  The giggle continued to chime somewhere inside her senses, not quite ready to show itself.  She staggered over the last few steps. 

         The door of the first bedroom sat open enough to reveal a sliver of light from the lamp inside.  The little occupant offered no disturbance to the peace. 

         Laurie peeked inside, wincing as she peeled the gap wide enough for a good view.  Her smile remained, immovable.   

         Timothy lay under the covers, tranquil bundle, with only the very tip of his blonde-haired head visible over the top of the quilt. 

         Laurie pulled the door back into place and padded further down the hallway.  Her vision blurred a little in one eye as she moved and she blinked it off.  Her smile grew sharper, tighter, tugging at the muscles of her face.  A sweet, encapsulating sense of contentment swelled within her being.  The giddiness still called to her, somewhere deep down. 

         The door to the next bedroom remained shut.  On the handle, a laminated, paper sign warned off All Boys. 

         Laurie staggered toward the handle, she reached out and held it with her delicate fingers.  She paused and straightened herself.  Narrowing her eyes and clenching her teeth, she opened up without a squeak. 

         The room lay in almost-darkness.  A fine, silvery haze of moonlight managed its way through the thick curtains over the window, offering little more than a fuzzy highlight to the shadows. 

         Laurie peered toward the general area of her daughter's bed, struggled to make out even a single object, and left, closing the door with slowness and fragility. 

         With both kids asleep, she made her way to the bathroom.  Her knees wavered a mite, causing her to reach out both arms by her side for balance.  A low chuckle scratched at her throat.  She swallowed it back, quickening her footfalls. 

         The bathroom exploded into a flurry of light as Laurie switched on the fluorescent bulb.  She reeled back pawing at both eyes to block out the piercing white beam.  Her left wrist burned at the joint and she eased her efforts. 

         She turned on the water tap, pooled up the cool liquid and splashed it over both hands.  A few spots of flesh stung, but subsided too quick to be bothersome.  She repeated the process a few times as her vision clawed its way back from the interrogational glare above. 

         A flashback from earlier in the evening danced around the recesses of her mind. 

         The table. 

         She reached out to stroke the bruised skin of her left wrist. 

         The smell of alcohol.  Dark, overbearing. 

         She inhaled deep, shook her head from side to side, and caught her own reflection in the mirror.  Her knees wobbled, wrestling to keep her upright. 

         The flesh of her bottom lip bloated out from her petite features like a blood-filled slug.  Darkened shades of purple and red.  In the middle, still open and weeping, an angry wound ignited a few more memories behind her eyes. 

         On the ground.  Alcohol.  Dim light. 

         She splashed a little of the water over her mouth, sucking air through her teeth to form a hiss-whistle as the pain tore through her senses.  She did it again, this time better prepared for the torment. 

         The skin surrounding her right eye resembled that of a prize fighter the morning after just another loss in his career.  Between the angry slits, the orb inside blazed red around the thick, black pupil which did its best to swallow up the remainder of her striking blue iris.  She sighed and groaned as if all-of-a-sudden aware of the transgression and its pain. 

         A tiny sliver of blood crept out of the corner of her mouth and stained her milky flesh.  She wiped at it with wet fingers and smudged it into a tiny pink puddle. 

         Music. 

         She failed to remember the song. 

         Music.  Raised voices. 

         Laurie wet a facecloth and raised it to her face, she dabbed at her skin with gentle care, gasping at each contact.  The cold fluid soothed her.  She took her time. 

         Her ankle gave way. 

         She remembered now. 

         Her ankle folded.  She fell against the table. 

         Laurie shook the thought off.  She blinked in quick succession, twisting her head with vigour, as if to strengthen her resistance. 

         The thick, musty scent of stale alcohol.  A little tobacco too.  Rancid breath.  Saliva.  Spittle.

         The images came faster.  Just another Friday night.  A few drinks, insecurity, beat the wife to make it all better. 

         “No.”  She wiped harder at her face, welcoming the pain it brought.  Her eyes closed for a second but the memories grew stronger and clearer.  She snapped her gaze back to the harsh light of the room. 

         “You fucking bitch.”  The words rang in her ears like an echo in time.  Such a venomous and accusatory tone. 

         Her heart slammed against her ribs.  She rubbed harder at her scarred skin.  Her fingers struggled to keep a grip of the wet cloth, their tips trembling like autumn leaves at the precipice of a storm. 

         The giggle remained.  Buried deep inside her being.  A tiny voice, ever-growing.  Looming on the horizon. 

         She parted her lips and appraised the damage inside her mouth.  A little blood across the surface of two teeth, but neither broken or loose.  Small mercies.  She stood back enough to see more of her body in the large mirror.  A few rips in her green shirt, a button missing, little else of note. 

         “You fucking whore.”  His voice lingered in her soul.  Unimpeded. 

         A chilling shiver stabbed through her spine, twisting its way up to her neck and forcing her shoulders to pinch into a protective pose. 

         She spotted the grin in the mirror.  Her grin.  From ear to ear.  Elated.  The giggle tore free from its restraints, leaping from her throat and tickling at her lips as it uttered forth. 

         His face.  Seething with anger.  His fists.  Clenched in murderous desire. 

         Her giggle grew, both in volume and recklessness.  It filled the room and, in all likelihood, the rest of the house.  She clamped one hand to her mouth to stifle the racket. 

         He punched out.  Kicked.  Chased and caught.  Punched again.  Saliva dripping from his rage-stained maw.  “You fucking whore.  You've been with someone.  I fucking know you have.”  His teeth shone like those of a wolf about to devour its prey under the moonlight. 

         Standing in front of the sink, the trickle of water still rustling in her ears, Laurie balled her fingers into a tight fist.  She gritted her teeth.  Her reflection darked, as if something inside dared to show itself through the mask.  She welcomed it.  Found herself grateful for being in its presence. 

         He tumbled to the floor. Hit his head with a heavy thunk on something hard.  He moved.  Moaned.  Started to climb up again.

         She watched the images and listened to the sounds play back in her mind, like a bad quality video recording of the events.  A sense of horror and celebration wrestled each other in her consciousness. 

         The object connected with the back of his skull with a dull, thick thud .  Not what she expected at all.  No blood, no cracking and crashing of bones. 

         He lay still.  His breath choked in his throat, wheezed, but continued. 

         She stood over him.  Her blood churned through her ears like a sludge in a landslide.  Her pulse surged through her veins like a thick knot catching on every joint.  Fast.  Very fast.  Exhiliration more than fear?  Her lips stretched into an awkward grin. 

         The giggle mutated into a belly laugh.  Thunderous.  Delightful. 

         “Is everything OK?” 

         Laurie wheeled around, the breath torn from her lungs.  She witnessed her child from somewhere inside her own skull.  The laughing didn't cease. 

         Chrissie looked on in confusion.  She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and tried again.  “Mum?  Is everything OK?”  The tone of her voice got lost in the laughter, like a whisper at a rock concert. 

         “I'm better than OK.”  Laurie managed to pull herself back to a giggle.  She turned away from her child and splashed more water on her face. 
         
         “Why-” 

         “I'm fine, sweetheart.  Get yourself back to bed.  I'm just a little drunk.”  The giggling laboured her attempts at speech, but she got the words out clear enough to be understood.  “Just drunk, darling.” 

         The door closed and light footsteps padded down the hall. 

         “I'm fucking fantastic.”  She switched off the light and advanced to her own bedroom.  Inside, she almost ripped her clothing as she removed it, and slinked into bed naked.  Alone.  Free.  Safe. 

         As she lay under the covers, eyes wide open, the events of the night continued to flow behind her gaze.  She stared off into the distance as they played themselves out. 

         He twitched.  Still alive.

         She hit him again.  The heavy iron poker thudded against his cranium.  Something gave way under his hair.  Blood wept from the wound, thick, dark, viscous.  It cascaded down over his neck and the collar of his white shirt.

         He didn't move.  His breathing reduced to nothing.  With unbearable slowness his eyes rolled up into the sockets, leaving behind just pale white orbs. 

         Laurie didn't move under the covers.  Just remembered.  The clean-up job whizzed past in fits and starts. 

         Bin liners, bleach, a mop, a bucket of water. 

         Laurie pulled the covers up around her throat, the grin still planted firm on her lips.  The giggle still boasted its presence, quietened, but bubbling somewhere in the distance.   

         “We're going on a trip kids.”  She whispered the words into the darkness.  “Auntie Rebecca has invited us up to her place for a few weeks.  Daddy isn't coming.”  She pulled the duvet hard against her mouth to restrain the laughter seeping up from her belly. 

         She focused on the face in her mind's eye.  The still, silenced, grey face.  Dead.  Stopped.  No longer dangerous.  The image soothed her nerve enough to let her close her eyes.  She lay in the shadows for what seemed like hours before finding a little sleep.