Sex and Murder Magazine

By M.K. Barnes

I always knew I’d leave her the day she told me she was pregnant—clenching a glass of bourbon tightly between her scarlet-chipped nails, she spat the words at me, I told you to use a god damn condom you arrogant son of a bitch. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind that she planned this to make me stay. Stay in a loveless marriage—a common law marriage—that I refused to admit to.

Every night we’d lay in bed, I’d read Hemmingway and Salinger as she watched late night talk shows and rambled incessantly about her growing stomach. Why don’t you pick me up some cream from the 7-11 tonight, she’d say picking at the dark purple marks that spidered up her stomach like a cracked windshield after a bad accident. No, I’d say, turning off the TV. Dr. Calmine said you should only gain 15-30 pounds with the pregnancy. You need to start rollerblading or something, chica.

After she had the kid, the weight still clung like a floatation devise around the center of her stomach, yet she still always claimed to be hungry. I began stacking pillows between us as we slept, trying to keep her excess skin from molding to my back during the night. If I didn’t do this, she’d cling to me, causing her stomach to suction into the small of my back. I’d spend hours attempting to remove myself from her grasp, but every time I tried to pull free, our bodies would shudder with a sweat-caused smack—forcing her grasp to tighten.

It wasn’t till the kid started speaking that I realized what I had gotten myself into. It would come up to me and hug me when I got home from work. Dad-ah! It would say, tumbling onto my leg and latching its small, saliva-encrusted fingers behind my calf. Mooma mean. Its large ginger-spackled eyes would look up at me like an injured race horse waiting to be shot and I would tensely pat it on the head. Yeah niño Sometimes I wonder if this is hell.

Four years later the kid got sent home from first grade. Of course my wife was passed out on the couch with a highball in her hand, so I took my lunch early. Where did he learn this language? They asked, giving me the once over. I looked at the kid, smiling proudly in his chair and mumbled something about his mother being an alcoholic. I shake their hands, smile politely, and take a swig out of my flask as I walk towards the car.

What did you say to her, kid? I say as I start the engine. He smiles at me and pushes his sleeves up. She wanted to know why I won’t do homework. I look at him once more before pulling into traffic. I told her no filthy punta tells me what to do. I bite my lip and attempt not to laugh. Then the kid looks right at me and says, right Dad?

His amber eyes glaze over as I pull off to the side of the road. Look kid, I say forcefully grabbing his chin so he can’t break eye contact. Don’t fucking call me that. His eyes start to tear and I push him hard against the window. His head cracks and he starts to cry. Get the fuck out of my car, pendejo Fucking walk home.

After dinner that night I pour myself a bourbon and head to his room. I’m sorry, he says, smiling slightly. I begin to close his door. I’m sorry, Dad, he whispers.

I beat him till the dry skin between my fingers begins to tear. I pick up my glass and start to leave. This is no good, I mutter, swirling the watered-down bourbon. I pour it, slowly down the crease of his neck. A low moan begins to bleed from his mouth. Shut up kid, I say pushing him with my heel. His cries become hushed as I walk towards the door.

*****

I’ve been sober for almost four years, give or take. Of course I have the occasional drink with dinner, or on a Holiday, but nothing I can’t control. That’s one of the things they teach you in AA, you need to learn to control your urges. I figure if I just go to meetings, and only drink a little then I’m all right. It’s all about control, you know. Of course I can’t tell Karen, that’s my new wife. She’s never been on the wagon, never had to get off while it’s going seventy miles per hour either. She wouldn’t understand. She thinks I’m getting sober for her. For her and the kid.

I tried to tell her once—that I had a woman and a kid before—but she just got this distant look in her eyes and told me to lay off the juice. That’s her solution to everything. She should be an ad for sober living or something. Stand by the liquor store in a white gown with a red and black sign that says I can save you. They’d think she was an angel, leading them to a heaven, except heaven to a drunk is 1920’s New York—where it’s socially acceptable to have a few cocktails with lunch.

I tell her I’m not like that, I don’t need the stuff— it just helps. I’m not addicted, not like a heroin addict. I don’t need it. I have a full time job, a house, a life. I pay all my bills on time, hell, I pay all of our bills on time. Karen doesn’t work. She claims the kid needs her at home, at least for another year. When he’s six he starts first grade. Then I can go back to work, she said. So I slave away in the office, day after day, working Saturdays at the hardware store to bring in extra income and she thinks I don’t deserve a break. She cry’s when she finds out that I go out with the boys for a drink after work. That’s why we don’t tell her anymore. You see Karen, well Karen’s fragile. She just can’t take things like this.

*****

I can’t remember what was worse, watching cartoons with this kid, or having sex with my ex-wife. They both pulled and tugged at me in ways that were unnatural, ways that only made me angry. I never thought Karen would turn into her, the woman I left, the woman I ran away from. But she did.

She lays sprawled out across the couch in the living room, drinking vodka gimlets and watching soap operas while our kid is in school. She passes out, drink in hand, and forgets to pick him up from the bus stop. Our neighbor calls me, at least once a week, telling me she had to walk Hayden home again. That she found my wife, sitting on our couch, covered in piss again.

I don’t hit her like I used to hit my ex, or that thing that popped out of her. I’m not that person anymore. I just need to keep her in line sometimes. When she talks back, I’ll give her a little tap to the face. You have no say here. Get your shit together, or get out. I scream at her, connecting my fists with her eye socket, jaw, mouth.

She cries sometimes, but that makes it worse. I don’t think she can help it, but she does it, and it sets me off. If she didn’t cry, we’d be a lot better. Her nose wouldn’t have been broken last July; her eye wouldn’t be swollen today. She tries to use it as an excuse I’m sorry there’s no food in the house, honey, she says smiling timidly at me. I just didn’t want to embarrass you by going into the grocery store looking like this.

I grunt and throw my beer can at her head. I could hire a hooker that would take better care of this place than you. I smile, grabbing her flopping breasts that hang loosely from her wrinkled night-shirt. They wouldn’t look like they came from the rain forest either. I flick at her sagging breast and it jiggles like a bowl of jello.

She begins to cry, but I like it. This time it doesn’t piss me off. Take off your shirt, punta, I call, swallowing the last of the bourbon in my glass. And fill this up. She looks at me confused. But Hayden’s in his room. She clutches her hands across her breasts, flattening them against her stomach.

My fists slowly ball as I make my way towards her. Where is my drink. I slap her in the face, leaving a red mark. I’m sorry, I’ll get it. She pours the drink, leaving it next to my chair. Why don’t you sit down, baby. I can turn on the TV. We can watch that show you like, she pleads, stepping away from me.

Take off your shirt, I breathe, swallowing a mouthful of liquor before striking her in the temple. Her cry’s make me hard. Make me forget what a horrible person she is. Take off your shirt, I scream, kicking her in the stomach.

She turns away from me, slowly peeling back the fabric of her shirt, revealing a purple and black spotted torso. You like it rough don’t you, I say, finishing my drink before pulling down my pants. I bet it makes you wet.

She screams as I pull her pants from around her hips. Hayden honey, it’s okay, she yells between sobs, Mommy and Daddy are just playing. Stay in your room.

I rip the lace from her panties as I pull them down to her knees. Let’s see how wet you are, I say, shoving my fingers into her tangled mound. No, she screams, flailing her arms. I beat my fists against her mouth until she can’t speak. That’s a good punta, I whisper, flipping her over and forcing myself into her. That’s a good wife.

Moans leave her mouth as I pump and thrust her limp body. Shut the fuck up, before I kill you. My stomach turns with passion as I intertwine my fingers around her neck, squeezing harder as the pressure builds. For a moment she struggles, fighting for air, before finally laying still. That’s it punta. Keep your whore mouth shut, I pant, filling her. That’s it.

*****

My parole officer tells me I might make it out in time to see my kid graduate from college. Not the first mistake, the second one. They try to tell me I killed her, but I know I didn’t. I know it was that whore’s fault. I know her family never liked me and wanted to pin her murder on me.

They found your semen inside her, Carlos, her mother screamed at me through the thick plastic divider of the visiting area. Yeah, well she was one horny chica, I say smiling through the gap in my mouth. You were convicted, she cries. Just give me this peace of mind. Just tell me you’re sorry.

I smile and nod, fluttering my tongue through the slit in my mouth. She throws her purse at the window. How dare you disrespect me, disrespect my daughter, may god save her soul. She looks at me once more and turns to leave. You’re the devil, you know that. The devil. I smile, and lick my lips. Think your daughter can get into heaven by fucking the devil? She clutches her chest as tears begin to fall from her eyes. I hope you rot in here, she screams, spitting on the divider.

The truth is I don’t mind it here. I spend my time with a nice group of fellas. We look out for each other. It really isn’t that much different in here. We have cable and computers in the library. Three meals a day, and of course I get laid more often in here than I did on the outside.

It’s even easier in here. They don’t fight back like the women outside. They grit their teeth and bare it. Mi pequeño punta, I whisper as I enter them, holding a sharpened razor blade to their neck. Keep your mouth shut or I’ll kill you. They always obey. They always know their place. But sometimes, especially when I’m having a bad day, I like to beat them until the last second of their existence is filled with me. How do you like that hombre, I scream as I strain my fingers around their neck.

Their limp body falls to the cold concrete floor as I press myself further inside. That’s it punta, I yell. That’s it.