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Rated: E · Short Story · Relationship · #2043348
It's really not as bad as its sounds. But yeah, my wife did stab me.
Being married to a wonderful woman like Jessie for the first year was quite the experience for me. For both of us really. With so many great times spent, so many new things learned and so much love shared, twelve months seemed to go by like an exhaled breath. There were the usual ups and downs just about every newly married couple goes through, as well as a few unexpected events that most newlyweds never come across. Such as an accidental broken nose seven or eight months into the year in an an attempt of foreplay on her part. The results: she wore a brace on her nose for a bit, and was mad at me for just as long. Typical marriage ours would be? Well, no, it's not looking like that.

Once Jessie was all healed up, she cheered up. And though it wasn't an extended time that she went cold towards me, it was still the longest time my wife would be mad for. My wife was never one to hold a grudge for too long, and was soon all smiles and went back to playfully referring to the event as cause for divorce. Though it wasn't my fault - I'm still sure of that, I did always feel bad that I unintentionally broke my wife's face.

The second year of marriage, Jessie would go on and get back at me. Not on purpose or spiteful or any sort of manner like that, but yeah, she did go and stab me.

So, it was looking like spending a stint in the emergency room, would by a normal way to spend each year together.

Okay, so Jessie didn't really stab me per say, not in the evil psychotic way one would imagine. There was no knife wielding and waving it a threatening fashion as one would see in horror films. She didn't wear a hockey mask either. My wife dropped a knife while cooking and, in a chance of bad luck, it struck my foot and bled like a crazy. I had never been stabbed before, and it was no picnic. I may have put on a sort of brave face in front of Jessie as we subsequently headed to the ER, but I really was on the verge of crying like a little girl in pain.

Like I said, Jessie didn't mean to do it on purpose. It was just one of those freak accidents that seemed to happen to us while we were together...

...It was a Saturday morning. Jessie and I were still wearing our bedroom clothes. I just had on a random v-neck shirt and some cotton pants. Jessie dawned some plaid shorts and a similar v-neck. Mine, no doubt.

On the weekends, I manage the bar, so I was home a bit late the previous night. But, always do enjoy getting up on Saturday mornings to have breakfast with my wife. Because of our different work schedules, we hardly have matching hours to enjoy each other's company.

Jessie does cook, and some stuff rather well. But as far as eggs and omelets, well, I just prefer to cook this for her. Let's just say that. I had her cut some green peppers. Because, I like green peppers. And, you can't have an omelet without peppers.

Jessie was using the cutting board, and I was in front of the cook top heating the pan and about to put the beaten eggs in. She was to the left of bit, about six or seven feet away, on the other side of the sink. We're talking about this place in the South Bay (my hometown area down in southern California) that made really awesome eggs. About how neither of us could remember the name of the restaurant and how ironic that it's known so well.

Jessie puts down the knife and cleans off her hands so she could grab her cell and text her friend Michelle as to the name of the place. Michelle, and her (then) fiancé Justin had joined us on the mornings we went to the omelet shop. So surely, they would remember.

The place we were discussing is this cool little spot that I thought was in Venice Beach that served all kinds of Omelets and California styled eggs. What's "California style eggs" you ask? Well they're just normal everyday breakfast, but with a hefty dose of sunshine. And, some ocean sand thrown in your face, if that's what you like.

The first time we ate at the spot, there was a long line of people that stood outside the place. Nine in the morning and there was a line to eat. It was like a breakfast version of a nightclub. All that was missing were the velvet ropes.

Jessie and I discussed how we came back a bit earlier the next morning so we could skip the long line for a table, and how the menu board inside had this huge list of different types of omelets. Thirty or forty combinations. I remarked on how there may just have been a chicken coupe behind the place. No doubt with this sort of demand for eggs, there must be a direct line to the shop close by. A "chicken sweatshop," I jokingly said.

The name of the restaurant, we would find out from a reply text, "The Omelet Parlor." And it's not in Venice. It's in Santa Monica. Well, it "was" in the city by the sea. They've long since closed down now. Presently speaking, now that I frequent said city, I would find out the reason for the closure, would be the cause of too many restaurants along the same street the Parlor was at; and them not being able to compete with them.

Regardless, this was the topic of discussion as we made a similar style of breakfast food. And a little bit of a distraction as Jess was on her phone.

I put more butter into the heating pan and dripped some spots along the stove, so I ask Jessie for the towel she used just a bit ago.

"Hey, toss me the towel," I tell her.

Little do I know that Jess had placed the towel - that she used to clean off her hands with to text - right over the knife that she was using to cut the vegetables with.

My wife grabs the towel and throws it to me. But, without knowing it, she also picks up the knife. Not fully though, as the tip of it may just have gotten caught in the strands of the towel. Of course we don't know it was caught, and so she tosses it to me. Almost making it, but not quite. Instead, the knife falls down to the floor, and to the side.

I don't know how the knife fell, but when Jessie threw the towel straight to me, the knife shot out to the side somehow, hit the door where we keep the cookware, then hit the floor and slid to my feet...

Then, stab!

As I had mentioned before, it was morning. So naturally, I was still barefoot.

When Jessie threw me the towel, I focused on catching it. At the same time though, I just heard the noise of the pantry door. Not realizing there was a dagger coming at me.

If I can remember what my thought was at the time I heard the noise, I just assumed Jess had dropped the salt shaker or something, though I never saw the act. So, my eyes stayed on the towel.

That is, til I saw something in my corner of my sight, something coming towards me.

I have no idea what it is, but I instinctively try to jump out of the way. Not enough time however. I lift my left foot in time and try, with the other, to hop out of the way. But, the knife is coming at me with speed, and catches me on the inside of my right foot.

Mind you, I'm still under the impression that it's a salt shaker that fell and was, in some weird, way racing towards me.

Presently thinking about it, I don't know in what manner the knife could have gained so much in the space of our kitchen. Enough to cut? Jessie didn't throw me the towel that hard, and it was an underhand toss for "ef" sakes. And, wouldn't the path the knife took (to the side) deflect any momentum down to a short slide?

So as the knife pierces my skin, I'm still in the motion of lifting it out of the way - stupidly thinking I can avoid it. The dagger had already cut me though, but I don't feel the puncture. Not until I actually do see that it's a knife - as my leg is in the air and off the floor - which for a second was stuck in my foot, before it quickly falls away.

That's when it starts to bleed. And, it starts to burn. And then the pain...

I yell out "oowwwwe! What the shit!"

By my guess, Jessie saw the knife shoot towards me. As soon as she sees me freak out and the spots of red spatter the floor, she rushes towards me in a frantic haste yelling "oh my god I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm really sorry!"

I grab my foot still shouting "shit" as my wife grabs the towel off the floor and gets to me, but in those mere half seconds, my hand (even though I'm covering the wound) is now seeping crimson from between my fingers.

"Shhhhit! You stabbed me dude!" I exhaled, the pain beginning to crawl up my leg like a shock.

I don't know if Jessie is panicing or just alarmed by the blood that she sees all over the floor, but she's still repeating "I'm sorry" while now using the towel to cover the cut.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry! I didn't know I grabbed the knife. Does it Hurt!?"

Yes it f**king hurts," I retort. "I've just been stabbed!"

Jess keeps on apologizing in a now clearly panicked tone.

I've never been stabbed before. I mean, I've cut myself with a knife before. Like, my finger when cutting food or something, or while working on the cars. But I've never been properly stabbed. At first, there was the sharp pain when I saw the knife fall away from my foot. Then there was the stinging pain for a few seconds. But after that, it just felt hot. Like I had been burnt. Then of course there was the wet feeling of the blood, as it coursed out.

...If you've been at the doctors or have donated blood, you know there's this sensation that one feels when you see the blood coming out of you. I'm not squeamish at the sight of blood, but yeah there's a definite feel that's kind of hard to describe. It's like...like energy being taken away from you...

She asks me something now, but I don't fully catch the question. I think Jessie asked me how bad it was, but I'm now feeling a bit...I don't know, like drunk. But not drunk. I'm getting tunnel vision. My wife says something else, but I don't hear her anymore, because I'm feeling faint.

Having this feeling of tunnel vision and loss of hearing happen to be before (when I cut my own self long ago), I knew the knife had hit a nerve and I was on the verge of faint. But even though I was now seeing everything so far away, and feeling a bit dodgy, I saw the towel Jess held to my leg was now even more red then before. The blood was still coming out. Fast.

Sometime during these seconds of tunnel sight, I must have sat down on the kitchen floor. Maybe this is what Jessie said a bit ago. And, I think the way I moved (my motions) signaled to her that this was a pretty bad cut.

I hear her mention something about "face," and try to concentrate back on what's going on, when I hear Jess say "we have to get you to the hospital."

"Yeah," I'm probably slurring now, "I think I might need a stitch or two..."

...So, there we are at the hospital once again. This time, I'm the one being tended to by a nurse, who's a dude, by the way. I'm feeling a bit better now. Somewhat. I mean, I'm not feeling "woozy" anymore, but my foot still burns and stings like crazy. It still bled slightly when the "murse" (male nurse) removed the towel to tend to it.

The doctor comes in five minutes later. She's an attractive woman, and so I turn to Jessie and give her a little eye brow raise. Even though my foot was hurting. I mean, I was just stabbed, but I'm okay now, yet I still notice my wife has a worried look in her eyes. So this is something I do to ease her stress. Let her know I'm finding this "attention" very suiting. She just shakes her head, but I see her worry lifting.

The reason the cut bled so much, the hot doctor goes on to say, is because when the knife struck, it hit a vein. It wasn't a major vein and there was no need for surgery, but it still needed to be patched up. I hear her ask something of the nurse but don't really catch it because I was now facing Jessie.

From the moment we were in the truck heading the hospital, I noticed that my wife had this really distraught look. One I have only seen a couple of times. So when the doctor dismissed the thought of a surgical procedure, I could see that any uneasiness she was overwhelmed with, was subsiding. Even more so when the doctor asks me how this happened. I was feeling better enough to poke a bit of fun at Jess to try and bring her a smile.

The doctor was now applying this clear stuff on the wound as I tell her how Jessie had stabbed me.

"Yeah, she went raving mad and started swinging a knife with a sadistic grin on her face. And while I backed away, or tried to back away, I tripped and fell. Trying to protect myself, she managed to cut my foot, then started to laugh madly when she saw the blood drip down."

The doctor, who's now stitching up my cut, wasn't believing this. But, it does manage to lighten Jessie's mood as she smirks now and begins to correct the story. I smile, because I know that she feels better now.

Contrary to the last time we were here in the ER, with her slightly broken nose, I really wasn't mad at my wife in any manner through all of this. Not the way she was at me back then. I knew from the first drop of blood that she didn't mean to stab me, and it wasn't her fault. It was just some freak accident. Well, another freak accident.

Once the hot doctor sewed up five stitches, she lets the male nurse bandage up my foot and leaves. Jessie, now being her talkative self again, comments on the unfortunate visit to the exact place we were in around a year ago.

"Man," I say, "things just keep happening to us. What's that about?"

She shakes her head once more and then hugs me in an 'I'm sorry I tried to kill you' sort of way and simply says "I'm so sorry Oscar..."

Once we arrive back home with my foot all stitched and wrapped, I peg-leg it back to the kitchen and see the blood stained floor. The scene looks like a small animal had been murdered. Jessie tells me to go sit and rest on the couch as she's already grabbing something to clean up the mess with. I see the red pools of red and I'm just hoping there will not be any permanent stain that remains. But, there's nothing that I can do now to help, other then to supervise; and most likely, annoy my wife. So, I abide by her wishes and hop to the sofa, all the while saying "I can't believe you stabbed me..."

Afterwards, whenever we fought or whenever she was mad at me and I would have no retort, because whatever it would be was indeed my fault, I could always rely on this simple phrase to get me out of the jam and most often make her smile again.

"Yeah, well, you stabbed me."

It was gold I tell you. This always disarmed her.

Of course, there were those times she would come back with "well you broke my nose." So then we would just fall into some accusation loop that would go nowhere...

Jessie and I were married for something just shy of five years, before she passed away. But even in the couple of years that we were together before then, our life was pretty exciting. And I'm not talking about the bedroom stuff. Sometimes I wondered if it's simply bad luck that plagued us, or if all married couples went through incidents like this. Though, in talking to others and sharing the story as to why Jessie wore a nose brace, or why I was hobbled for several weeks, they would bring their arms to their heads in amazement of the tales being told.

So yeah, maybe it was just fate that decided "hey, why your both alive, let's give you a great and interesting life together."

Broken noses, breakfast stab wounds and bloody footprints; and even Christmas paper cuts. How many more incidents would life have held for us, if my wife were still alive. Oh how I smile upon the thought. Or maybe it's just a grimacing face, at the idea of more bloodshed...

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