Gone Guy

I wake up to find him gone.

"Good riddance", I murmur under my breath. But I know I am making a fool of myself. Something told me that he is never gonna come back and that he is gone for his own good.

I know, deep down, that I am gonna miss him. Though I would never have admitted this to him...

I want to stay in bed a bit more and think about our dysfunctional relationship. But something makes me get up. A sharp pain is pulsing through my upper arm. I don't even bother to look. Must be a sprain or something.

I get myself out of our cozy bed. As I make for the door, I catch a glimpse of myself in our bedroom mirror. I am a mess. My hair is shabby and I quickly smooth it down and tie it into a bun. I look drunk and then I remember, I am drunk.

Drinking and fighting, that's what we are good at. Every couple has their own'thing'and this is our thing. We drank and we fought. But we always got back together. I just can't remember what I said yesterday, for him to bail out on me.

I try to remember last night. I can only remember bits and pieces. I remember us getting stone drunk and then snarling at each other. I remember myself shouting. I remember him groaning.

My head starts hurting from all the drunk memories. Everything is hurting me. The blinding light, the hubbub of traffic outside. I press my palms to my ears and screw my eyes shut. I curl up near our bedpost. I need him now. I need him to hug me and say everything is gonna be alright. I curse myself for being so immature. For driving him out. Serves me right for my insolence.

I must have sat like that for a long time because my legs are hurting now. I feel hungry too. And my mouth is tasting stale from all the drinking I did. I hoist myself up and make for the staircase. I walk down the stairs into our sitting room. It too is a humongous mess. Everything is strewn everywhere and I can see broken bottles. Well, that's a first. However we drank, we never broke anything. We had a strict rule against vandalism.

He must have done it in a fit to show how angry he is. I stoop down to pick up a broken piece. I inspect it closely and almost give a startled cry. The broken rim is coated with drying blood.

'What the hell happened here last night??'.

I try to remember but couldn't fish anything more out from my gooey brain than I already know. I check myself for bruises. And then I remember the pain in my upper arm. In a frenzy, I roll up my sleeves and check. To my horror, I find that my right upper hand has many small scars running along it, like a sadistic design. My eyes start brimming. Not from the physical pain. But from the realization that he can actually hurt me.

So that explains his absence. Bastard!!

I am crying and cursing when I see it. A foot sticking out from behind our couch. So the bastard didn't leave after all. Must have plonked down unconscious after seeing me bleed.

I pick up the broken bloody shard and move towards him. I don't intend to hurt him but I intend to scare him. Scare him right out of his ignorant stupor.

I move towards the couch and look down at him. His face is contorted as if he is crying for help. And then my eyes move down his body. And I scream at what I see.

His torso is riddled with scars, scars from a broken bloody shard. Blood has pooled and dried near him. And then I remember. I remember drinking. I remember fighting. I remember stabbing him again and again with a sadistic pleasure as his face contorted.

I remember it now. I collapse near his dead body. I cradle his head in my arms and I weep. I weep at my wickedness. I weep for his loss. My loss. I weep for the pain I inflicted on him. I weep for the monster alcohol made me. For the monster I am.

I reach for my phone and dial the Police. I tell my story with an eerie composure. And I repeat that I must be punished.

Yes, I must be...