Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 47419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 237(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 237(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
BASTARD
I’ve heard about people becoming sober immediately but never knew it was a real thing. As soon as her head hit the counter, that’s what happened to me. I stood there for the first few seconds before sprinting into action.
That sickening thud had wiped every vestige of intoxication clean out of my head, and I saw what I needed to do clearly before I did it. It was as if something else was guiding my movements, and self-preservation was the name of the game.
Each time panic threatened to set in, I kept reminding myself that there was no one else here, no one to give a true account of what happened other than me. So, even though I had to fight back nausea every step of the way, I did what needed to be done.
I poured some of my whisky all over her and the floor, then got a glass and poured some whiskey into it, forcing some into her mouth just to be safe before laying the glass next to her.
The story was set in my mind, and I went over everything in my head about ten times before calling for the ambulance. All I needed now was to remain calm and not appear guilty. Those moments of clarity were fading fast, and I needed a drink in the worst way. My hands shook, and it felt like I was going to shit myself any second.
I knew she wasn’t dead because her chest was still moving, and I could hear her fighting to breathe, but I also knew it didn’t look good. I rushed to open the door as soon as I heard emergency personnel pull up outside. I gave the EMTs the story I had come up with as I led them to her lying there on the floor.
She was drinking and slipped in the kitchen while preparing dinner. Soft, succinct, and to the point. That way, I don’t have to remember too much. It was exactly how it looked.
There was still the meal in the microwave if anyone cared to check. There was a glass next to her hand, whisky all over her clothes and floor from the spill, and her breath smelled of alcohol.
They got right to work checking her over, and I thought for sure they were going to call the cops, but they didn’t; they just took her to the hospital with me in the back of the ambulance, playing the dutiful husband.
It was hours before I heard anything, and I needed a drink. I spent every second scared that the cops were going to show up and arrest me, but it never happened. I thought for sure she was going to wake up and tell them what really happened. Then the doctor came out and told me the bad news.
Wendy was paralyzed from the neck down. She’d snapped her spinal cord and was non-verbal. As things looked, she’d be on a breathing tube for the foreseeable future, but they would see more as the days went on. At least she was awake for a while before passing out again.
I went into the room and looked down at her, not feeling or thinking anything. What was there to think about? She was trouble from the get-go and now the trash had taken itself out. I almost smiled but wasn’t sure if there were cameras in these rooms, so I did my bit with the tears, holding her hand and kissing her fingers.
A nurse came in and gave me some paperwork and talked at me about aftercare and what comes next, but I wasn’t interested. She didn’t know that, though, because I played the attentive, caring spouse to the hilt.
Some of the shit she said got through to me, though, and it looked like that bitch was still going to be a thorn in my side. If I left her here, people might start to wonder about the truth. Someone might put the pieces together. No, I can’t have that.
I was numb when I left there. I wanted to run away, as far away as I could get from this situation, but I knew that wasn’t an option. At least not yet. I have to play it safe for now. The nurse had said that it wasn’t looking good and that there was no chance of recovery.
Wendy had snapped something inside of her that took her voice away, which was good. She couldn’t open her big mouth and tell anyone what had really happened to her. She couldn’t move her limbs, so there was no way for her to write that shit down either.
The numbness came from knowing that I might have to spend months looking after that blob, who was no longer any use for anything, not even a good fuck. Then again, she didn’t need to feel for me to get off. I doubt it would be much different from the last year or so.