Page 78 of Bitter Poetry
The fuck he will?
My head whips around too fast for my pounding skull, and my gut clenches painfully again. Thank fuck everyone is focused on Ettore, and they don’t notice. The door opens and closes as he heads out.
Peter steps forward to help me up. I wave him off. “No offense but fuck off.”
“None, taken,” Peter says dryly. “You did well. Most lift their hands at some point. Ettore would have been paying attention to that.”
I’m too fucked up to work out what that means. “Jero told me not to.”
I push up to my feet. It fucking hurts. I think I’m going to throw up again, but somehow, I stave it off.
“Everyone fucks up at some time,” Jero says.
“You’re telling me this is normal? That he was looking for an excuse?”
Peter shrugs. Bo’s face is downright sympathetic. Jero’s lips are a thin line.
“Everyone lifts their hands,” Bo says, turning from Peter to Jero. “What does it mean that he didn’t?”
“It means he’s a nutter,” Jero says, handing over my jacket. “Come on, mate.”
CARMELA
I go to bed alone.
Ettore returns in the early hours of the morning, smelling of perfume and whiskey. Maybe he thinks fucking other women is a punishment for me? He would be sadly mistaken if that were the case.
The bed dips as he sits down beside me. The curtains were left open, and the grainy early morning sunlight casts his profile in stark relief. My husband is not an unattractive man, on the outside at least.
Beneath lurks a monster.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. A familiar sense of danger sets my heart pounding too fast in my chest, and I push up to a sitting position, fidgeting to adjust the neckline of my nightgown. The other woman or women, supposing they have done more than fawn all over him, were merely a prelude to the main event.
“Why do you do this to me, Carmela?” He turns to face me with a haunted look. “Why do you make me crazy?”
I swallow past the tightness in my throat. We have done this often enough for me to realize there is no correct answer. There was a brief, naïve time when I thought I might find a way to make this work—friendship, if not love.
We hadn’t yet married when he erased any such hope.
“Did you enjoy taunting your husband?” he presses.
“No, of course not, Ettore.” My breathing is unsteady, making the words come out in a rush. “I never would.”
“The thought of another man touching you, even through necessity, incenses me.”
My eyes feel too wide.
My nerves are stretched tight.
“Admit it, you did it on purpose. Pretended to faint. Ah, the games of women. Was I not giving you enough attention?”
I shake my head. The world is sliding, taking me with it, and while my mind scrambles for the magic solution, for the right words or actions, history and experience tell me there are none.
“I don’t believe you, Carmela. Was it a test of me?”
He lunges, fists my hair, and drags me from the bed. “I swore to your father I would protect you.” My knees hit the floor with a thud, and my scalp burns. “Even from yourself.”
He pushes me down, his greater weight and strength holding me with ease. My young adult notions of masculine strength offered a sense of comfort and protection. Now, it anchors my vulnerability.
