notebook expansion.

this is a scene that would be in the first story I wrote about the egotistical writer. it would take place years before the part I wrote.

She threw the papers at my face. It should have been a strong gesture of rage, but well, you know what happens when you throw paper. As it drifted slowly to the floor I thought about how it as a visual representation of her emotions. Like a headstrong ship that gets the wind taken right out of its sails. After years of fighting I knew the pattern, and I admit I used her submissiveness to get away with more than I should. I was gazing at the papers, a little in awe of the poetry of the universe, when she hit me in the stomach with the fire poker.
“Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”
“You tell me not to be dramatic and then you tell me you have a son,” she yells.
I’m on the ground sobbing. My whole body feels sick. I’m facing the oriental carpet and I wrench and vomit all over it. The next blow land across my back but I don’t really feel it. All I can do is think that the vomit looks like an abstract version of the patterns on the carpet. Thanks to the sherry I had ingested earlier that night the colors are almost an exact match. It’s like someone took part of the carpet and put it in a blender then poured it back onto the carpet. As she hits me on the head I’m thinking, so this is what they mean by your body detaching during trauma. I almost want to laugh, she thinks she’s hurting me. She can’t see that my essence has retreated, slinking out of my mouth as regurgitated pie and sherry. And I am safe now, a pile of chameleon stench hidden from the fire poker. Eventually she stops hitting me.
She slumps into the armchair. I roll over and lie on my back panting. There seems to be something sticky on the side of my head. I feel nothing but pounding pain throughout most of my body. We stay like this for maybe ten minutes, not talking or moving then she gets up and goes to the kitchen. I groan and start to check for broken limbs. There is a cut in my head but the skull isn’t fractured. I’m sitting on the carpet when she comes back with a tray, a bottle of whiskey two glasses and an ice pack.
“I think I should go to the emergency room.” I tell her.
“I think we should talk.” She kneels beside me and holds the icepack to my head.
“You tried to kill me.”
“Here, have a whiskey,” She tenderly pours a little into my open mouth, “you have a son?”
“Yes, he’s six months old.”
“Why did you marry me?”