In a Moment's Notice (WIP)

Psychology

At three o’clock, Michael Bovines groped his way to the bathroom, hugging on the hallway wall. Knocking over photographs, he reached the toilet in the nick of time. The merrymaking had ended ten hours ago; he called the night a success. It began promptly at ten, in a huge bar with a live band. The music unfamiliar to him, the younger crowd began piling in around midnight, long after he felt the affects of three beers. He sat at a table in the back, sipping a Heineken, watching half naked girls dance to songs he couldn’t name. Their boyfriends copping quick and sometimes not so quick feels of endowed body parts.

This was his new Modus Operandi. Enter a bar where the younger women visited; get drunk so he wouldn’t worry about the morality of his actions to come. Spend several hours eyeing all the females. Picking the right girl was important to the success of the night. He preferred good-looking girls, but looks were secondary. It had more to do with the self-esteem, or lack of it, radiating from the girl. Packs of odd numbered groups, usually three produced the best results. There was always one girl who, for what ever reason wasn’t on the dance floor. This girl, sitting by herself, quiet and reserved. This is the girl he went after.

They were never victims. Victims suffered. Victims were abused. His girls were willing. It was his job to make them want to go,
To guilt them into more. It was a psychological game. Mike spent the last two years cultivating his advances. He prided himself on being able to take a girl home every night, if he so desired, without the help of the new popular drugs.

Two years and too many girls later, Mike was tired of one-night stands. Too many sticky problems arose from his uncommitting behavior. A scary trip to the doctor with a STD. Thank God one round of antibiotics and topical cream cured it. A near pregnancy, not to mention the countless girls phoning him the morning after. And the morning after the morning after, asking for money, or rides to appointments or whatever.

Lately, he felt guilty for the things he did. He knew he manipulated young minds to meet his twisted sense of pleasure. But it wasn’t pleasure anymore. He was the one racked with guilt.
A glance in the mirror brought him back to reality. Bloodshot eyes stared back at him. Skin pale, hair sticking up in all directions, he didn’t like what he saw. So much for turning over a new leaf. He hated who he’d become. How did he let this monster emerge and take over his body? His mind? His thoughts? The fingers of his right hand balled up into a fist and he threw a punch in the eyes of his reflection. “You don’t even have the strength to break the glass.” His scratchy voice said out loud.

Opening the medicine cabinet, he grabbed a bottle of Valium. Ripping the lid off and tossing it aimlessly in the air, pills scattered everywhere. Couldn’t he even open a bottle of pills successfully? In frantic movements, large fingers snatched several at a time and popped them in his mouth. Devouring c them like chocolate. Before he knew it, the bottle was empty. He stared into the mirror again. Slowly reaching for the soap, he lathered his face and threw cold water to rinse. On second thought, he decided to take a shower. Nice and hot, cleaning his skin of sin and disgust. His mind attacked him. He was a horrible person who didn’t deserve his two young healthy boys. Sklyer and Scottie were better off with their aunt Suzie. Tears streamed down his eyes as he rubbed his skin raw. “I hate you!” he screamed to himself. “You’re the devil!” “You don’t deserve to live!”

He slid down to a seated position. And cried hysterically. Images of his small children haunted his thought, triggering childhood memories. A boy was pushing her around in the parking lot of the theater. He took three punches in the haw and cheek for her. He struggled to finish his science report and she was there, tying away at midnight. He loved his sister. She’d understand. She’d take care of Sklyer and Scottie for him.

An intruding thought startled him. He heard his wife’s voice. “What are you doing Michael?” He had been participating in online stock trading without first discussing his activities with her. She had been furious with him. She was pregnant with their second child. Online trading was a childish risk they didn’t need. “What are you doing?” The voice asked him again. “I’m…” he paused, sitting up. With great effort, he stood up. “…Coming to see you.”

After getting out and drying off, he put on some warm, clean pajamas and climbed between the sheets of his bead. Glancing over to his left, he said a quick prayer that he was alone. At least they wouldn’t find him with a naked girl ten years younger than he.

The muscles relaxed as the Valium kicked in. “Please forgive me.” He begged to the empty bedroom. Just as he was drifting off to sleep, the ringing of the phone would not let him relax. ‘Well?” his wife voice said, ‘aren’t you going to get it?”

“No.” he mumbled.

“Answer the phone!” her voice screamed.

He threw his heavy arm in the direction of the receiver. Fingers fumbled but were unsuccessful. Somewhere in the foggy depths of his brain, he knew he knocked the recover off its cradle. He also knocked over a glass, hearing it shatter, he tried to open his eyes, his lids heavy. He forced himself to find the phone, this time; he knocked over a lamp, its crash to the floor startling every fiber of his being. But he was too heavy; everything was too heavy, his legs, his arms, his thoughts.
He let his muscles relax. “I’m on my way baby.” He whispered. “Stacey, I’m on my way.”

The bedside digit clock read 4:30 PM


** Image ID #929683 Unavailable **
** Image ID #921227 Unavailable **
"Invalid Item" 
"You Want to Write About WHAT?" 

ASIN: 188003235X	Let the Crazy Child Write!: Finding Your Creative Writing Voice Product Type: Book
	Amazon's Price: Price N/A Buy Now!

Do You Keep a Journal or Blog?  (E) Which gender journals or blogs more? #928039 by NanoWriMo2018 Into the Earth