Page 35 of Brutal Husband

Why are my clothes damp?

I go back to my bedroom and notice something startling about my bed. There’s blood all over my pillow. I put my hands to my face, and my forehead feels tender and crusted with something. Hurrying back to the bathroom, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and gasp.

There’s dark purple and red swelling above my right eye. Blood has dripped down my face and dried across my cheeks.

What the hell happened last night? I try to turn back through my memories, but I’m presented with…nothing. I can’t even remember what I did yesterday. Oh, my God, I have amnes—

A memory comes back to me.Things are dangerous right now. I have enemies.

I sigh with relief as I realize I do remember what I did yesterday. All right. I don’t have amnesia. Nero and I talked at dinner, and he made cryptic remarks about enemies.

Have another glass of wine, Rieta.

I wince as a wave of shame passes through me. Nero is aware my drinking is getting out of hand. The memory loss is because I was drunk last night when I…what?

Turning on the taps, I scoop cold water over my face, carefully wash the dried blood away, and bathe the lump on my forehead. I can cup it in my hand it’s so big. I need to put some ice on it. What are the signs of a concussion? I can’t remember.

As I straighten up, a snapshot from last night flashes over my mind. Me walking over dirt in the rain in near total darkness. The memory feels…frightening. When I look down at my feet, I see that they’re clean. I’m clean, though my clothes are damp, so perhaps I took a shower fully clothed. I suppose that after I showered, the cut on my forehead kept on bleeding.

I hunt for clues in my room for any sign of what happened last night, but nothing is amiss apart from a damp towel lying crumpled on the floor.

I take off my damp clothes, put on a dry robe and some large, fluffy socks for warmth and comfort, and then make my way through the house. Nero’s bedroom is deserted, and there aren’t any newly discarded clothes in his laundry hamper, so he didn’t come home last night. Downstairs, the only thing out of place is an open bottle of wine on the kitchen counter and a near-empty wine glass, but considering my queasy stomach and the way I’ve been spiraling lately, it’s not that out of place.

As I make coffee, I try to remember what happened after dinner. I think I went out. Why did I go out? Somehow, I wasinjured, and then I came home and took a shower wearing all my clothes, drank more wine, and passed out.

My skull throbs. I groan and rub my forehead but yelp when pain bursts through my tender flesh. This is a new low for me. I can’t go on like this or I’m going to make myself sick and ruin my life. I need to leave my husband.

I gasp and straighten up. That’s right, I went out because I wanted to tell my husband I want a divorce. Did I tell him?

I hold my breath, hoping for a memory of the encounter to surface.

Nothing. Goddamn it.

My handbag is on the floor by the garage door, and my phone is inside. There are no missed calls from Nero. No messages from him either. I hesitate, and then call him, wondering if I’ll be able to tell what we spoke about last night from his tone of voice and the way he greets me.

Nero doesn’t answer. I send him a text asking him to call me and put the phone down.

Maybe I was hurt before I managed to track him down. I could have been in a car accident.

I go into the garage and take a look at my car. No dents. No broken headlights or taillights. Okay, probably not a car accident.

Moving back into the kitchen, I sit quietly at the counter and sip my coffee. If I stay calm, then everything will be all right. The memories will surface, and I’ll understand what happened. What was I thinking, getting drunk and going out alone in my car? I’m lucky to have woken up this morning and not been found dead in a river or on a construction site. The minutes tick by, and I can remember nothing. My heart starts racing, and the sick feeling in my belly doubles.

No more drinking. I can’t live like this.

I spend the morning collecting everything alcoholic I can find in the kitchen, lounge, and master bedroom, and pour it down the sink. There’s quite a collection of empty bottles by the time I’m nearly done.

The front door opens and closes, and I hear the cheery greeting of Mrs. White, our cleaner who comes once a week. I call out a mumbled hello, concentrating on watching dregs of vodka disappear down the drain. I’m stronger than this misery. When the loneliness hits me tonight, I’ll ignore the cravings for alcoholic comfort and make good decisions from now on.

“Mrs. Lombardi, there’s blood in the hallway, and I noticed that in the garden…oh!” Mrs. White enters the kitchen, and I turn toward her, and her mouth drops open as she catches sight of my injured forehead. “Mrs. Lombardi, are you all right?”

“I had a strange night last night. I’m—I’m trying to do better.”

Mrs. White glances at all the empty bottles I’ve piled up next to the sink. Her lips firm into a line, and she nods sharply in approval, in a way that makes me wonder if even our cleaner was aware of my spiraling. “I will clean it all up. Don’t worry about anything. You’re doing better already, dear.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, fresh shame washing through me. I will remember Mrs. White’s belief in me the next time I feel myself longing for a glass of white wine.

When Mrs. White leaves a few hours later, I sink down onto the sofa, only planning to rest my eyes for a moment before calling our family doctor.

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