My nine years of marriage was filled with hugs and kisses
one day, and the back of a strong, mean hand the next day.
Living with Tom was no bed of roses. After each black eye, a
dozen roses would be delivered with a tender note attached
which read in bold letters HUGS AND
KISSES. Your loving husband Tom. They would usually
die on the table where I threw them, without vase or water. I
was usually too bruised and sick at heart to care about any
token of apology from him.
Tom had a terrible temper, which was inflated to raw fury
when combined with his drinking. The major problem was, he was
always drinking. Then I would be both his reason and solution.
The reason was, I had annoyed or aggravated him in some way.
The solution was, see how many licks he could get in before I
ran into the street terrified for my life. returning only
because I had nowhere else to go. This last time would be the very last time.
Tom vowed he would never let me go, he would get me no
matter where I went, and no matter how long it took. I was his
and I better make no mistake about that.
That last night when I returned to the house, Tom was as
dead as his roses on the table. He ran to the door with a
knife in his hand when he tripped over his own stumbling feet
and fell onto the knife. He lay with the knife sticking out
of his throat, amid the petals of his latest peace offering.
The bouquet on the table had one single bud clinging to life.
Both the roses and Tom were forever out of my life that
night. I lost no tears over losing
him.
The next month I had my first job in more than nine years.
I sold the house and rented a beautiful, sunny apartment which I was in the process of moving into.
Each night I would get to my apartment just after dark. I would then relax over a soup and salad while listening to the soft mellow rhythm from the CD sound system. I looked forward to these precious moments of solitude, no walking on eggs for fear of a slap or punch. Afterwards I would unpack a few more boxes of my belongings. I had lined the boxes against the one wall, which had a quaint window seat running under the wide window. The smaller boxes were placed on the window seat. I had earmarked each box with both its contents and the assigned room they would be unpacked in.
The small boxes on the window seat had been sitting undisturbed for almost a week. I hoped to be able to get to them on a week-end.
One night I came home and found a couple of the boxes had been upside down on the floor a few feet away from the wall. "I must have moved them myself" was my first reaction. I don't remember doing so, but that seemed to be the logical explanation.
Going to bed with a hot cup of cocoa would lull me into a much needed sleep. Unpacking would just have to wait another day. I was awakened with a loud bang or crash. "Did I dream it?" or did the sound come from the apartment. I got out of bed to do a search. Going from room to room I found nothing out of order, nothing that might have fallen from the wall because of a loose nail. "Well I must have dreamed it"I told myself. I returned to bed, by now I was wide awake. As I laid there thinking of the chores that had to be finished, I heard a distinct heavy breathing sound coming from over my left shoulder. There was nothing but the wall behind the bed. The breathing was deep and heavy. If there was a face to it, it did not show itself. I jumped from the bed and looked all around and under the bed. Absolutely Nothing. Somehow the night turned into day, the night's are especially long when one is full of fright.
The next day I again went home to find the boxes from the window seat all helter skelter on the living room floor. My first thought was that the manager of the building was coming in with his pass key. Why nothing else was touched except the boxes was a puzzle. Maybe a previous tenant still had a key. There just had to be an explanation as to what was going on in this beautiful sunny apartment.
Soon after I began to hear the heavy breathing in the living room. One Sunday afternoon I decided this would be a good day to finish unpacking and get things into place. After putting up the living room drapes, I started working on the new slip covers I had just purchased, when it started again.
At first it was barely audible. It sounded like a sound coming from the speakers,though the sound system was off. The breathing became louder, as I stood in horror, the side of the couch acually began to respire. I watched in both horror and fascination as the covering on the side of the couch moved in and out with every inhale and exhale.
As frightening as this was it did not compare with the life of fright I endured living with Tom. That was until the night I again woke up to the sound of heavy breathing, accompanied by the rotting odor of decaying roses.
I have since moved and changed jobs more times than I can count. With each move the breathing, and rotting odor follows me. I almost wish he would get it over with. I'd gladly take his punishment to put an end to this terror. "HERE I AM TOM."