Wednesday Worries – A snippet from It Won’t Happen Again

‘He’s my . . .’

‘If you’re going to tell me my husband is having an affair then it’s all lies. Thomas would never betray me!’ Martha screamed.

‘I am pleading with you, get some help,’ Elizabeth whispered. ‘Let him go, he loves me, not you. I know that your marriage is important to him, but if you only listened to reason.’

It was at that point it became clear that this stranger was telling the truth. She ended the call, unable to hear anymore. In a complete daze, made her way back into the front room, where she almost fell into the chair.

The only sound she could hear was the drum beat of her heart. Steady and slow. Steady and slow. Repeating the heart-breaking words, inside her throbbing head.

It got so bad that she had to go and write in her diary. A tiny part of her wanted to confront her husband, but the flame was soon snuffed out. But she couldn’t ignore the anger rising like a forgotten saucepan of water. Everything she put up with and he still made the ultimate betrayal; slept with another woman. She pulled open the drawer, with such force, that it nearly fell to the floor. As the cold wave of fury permeated her body, she tore her diary out of its hiding place and frantically scrawled in its waiting pages.

How bloody dare he! All those times when he was staying late at work, and he was probably with her. That woman, so whimpering on the phone. Get help. What in the hell did she mean by that? Get help. It’s Thomas that needs help. He threatens me and takes what he wants from me. Then throws me away like I am some piece of rubbish on his shoe. Maybe, my hand should slip when I make his dinner tonight. Something tasteless, just like his suits. A touch of his car’s anti-freeze should do it. A small amount and I would watch him writhe on the floor, and he would beg me to help him. But I would just stand there and let him die. I could be free of him, and even being in prison would be better than living with a pompous man like him.

 As the last word spread across the page like a dagger into his skin, Martha hurled the diary at the opposing wall.

Maybe this woman was right. Maybe she did need help.