For Mature Audience.
1987
Calabasas, California
"Do you like being a bodyguard?"
"Yeah-It pays good." Michael peered at her through his peripheral vision.
"Do you like being a film director's wife?" He mumbled out, his voice barely above a whis...
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With one swift push, she swung the large mahogany door open. The light from the hallway peaked into the doorway of the room.
The booming music pounded against her eardrums; the bass vibrating her entire skull. She grimaced, bringing her hands up. Her palms pressed firmly against her ears.
Squinting into the room, she stepped inside. Her bare feet hit something so harsh it sent it rolling out into the light. An empty bottle of liquor.
Her face fixed into a scowl and her eyes darted in all directions. The darkness engulfed every corner of the room. She shuffled forward extending her hand out.
Her fingertips felt around the wall until meeting with a light switch. Flicking it on, the bright fluorescent light washed a pale gleam over the room.
It glared into her tired eyes; she winced. Glancing around at the all-white room adorned with all-white furniture. The only exception was the black stereo that sat across the room with music blaring from its speakers.
She made her way towards the stereo; her feet scurrying along the carpeted floor. The speakers vibrated and shook; pulsing so harshly it was a wonder how they didn't blow out. Round and round the record spun and the needle followed every curve to it.
Glancing down at the technology, her hands scrambled all about. The knobs were all different sizes and the labels were all too small to read. So many switches and commands she knelt; yanking the cord out from the wall.
The cord fell with a thud room and the room fell deathly silent. A ringing began in her ears and there was a sudden shifting noise coming from behind her.
"Why'd you go and do that for?" He questioned, seemingly right behind her. His voice was low and his words jumbled together in his mouth.
She whipped her head over her shoulder; turning her body all the way around. There Vincent stood inches away; his stance crooked and unsteady. He held a bottle of liquor by the neck in his large hand. Veins peered out from his dark and muscular arms.
Brows furrowed she peered up at him; her face fixed into a scowl. "Who was that woman on the phone?"
"My assistant." Stumbling forward, he nearly crashed into her. His eyes were bloodshot and his gaze far off, seemingly unable to focus on anything.
The collar of his button-up was undone and the smell of cheap perfume hit her senses. "Calling at this hour of the night?" She challenged him.
"Yeah, and what of it?" Smirking, he shrugged his broad shoulders. Picking up the bottle humorously, he guzzled down the brown liquor. His prominent Adam's apple glided up and down his neck with every gulp.
She shook her head in disbelief, extending her hand out. Reaching for the half-empty bottle; he yanked it away from her grasp.
"And what gives you the right to answer my phone calls, huh?" His brows furrowed and his nostrils flared as he stared down at her.
"I'm your wife, remember?" Her tone was low and nasally. Thick lashes framed her eyes, they flickered as she blinked away the tears. Pursing her lips into a straight line and scanning his glazed eyes. She searched for just a glimmer of warmth in his cold stare.
"And who do you think pays for the phone service?" He waved his arms out, tilting his head to the side. "Every bill is under my name!"
"You wanted it that way! For me to stay home and you to work," she shouted. Her voice cracked and a single tear slid down her cheek.
He swung his arm back to his side. Clenching the bottle so tightly in his fist that his hand began to tremble.
"I love you, Vincent. I-I don't want to fight—I want us to work." Her teary eyes darted all along his still face, a vein poked through his forehead. The muscles in his jaw clenched.
"Anything and I'll do it—Please. I love you," she pleaded with him. Her lip quivered.
Swinging his arm up he flung the bottle down with all of his strength.
Her feet toppled over each other; she staggered back. Flinching at the sound, she gasped. The glass hit the corner of the wooden coffee table; shattering upon impact.
The glass shards scattered along the carpet. Whatever was left in the bottle splashed onto the trim of her silk nightgown.
She stared at Vincent wide-eyed, a ringing began in her ear. "I'm sorry," she whispered, bringing her hand to her stomach; she held it.
He stumbled forward, his loafers crushing the bits of glass as he stepped on them. Her eyes glued to his, she walked backward. Cradling her stomach; he drew nearer to her until her back hit the wall. "I'm sorry," she repeated faintly.
Towering over her, his hands balling into tight fists. "Damn right—You' sorry!" He rose his fist above her head, her gaze connected to his hand.
'The door—Get to the door,' she thought to herself. Her knees buckled underneath her and her feet seemed to be glued to the floor.
She watched Vincent's arm swing; his knuckles met with the bone of her cheek. Her body tumbled onto the ground with a thud.
Vincent shook his hand as if the punch had hurt his knuckles.
Catching herself by her hand; with the other, she continued to cradle her stomach. Tears sitting in the rims of her eyes, her cheek on fire.
"Answerin' my fuckin' phone calls," he grunted, leaning down to her level. The palm of his hand struck the side of her face.
He closed his hand, the harsh blow hitting her in her jaw. She swore he had knocked it out of place; the stinging had turned to a pulsing ache.
Her hand had given out on holding her up. The side of her head smacked against the floor. "Ah!" She hissed; grimacing in pain. Inhaling through her mouth she choked up a sob. Her body jolted up and down as she let out a few quiet cries.
Her arm wrapped tightly around her abdomen. Hastily she used the other to shield the top half of her belly; shielding it almost completely.
She squinted, her gaze blurry and clouded with tears. Vincent's leg hiked back, and the shine from his shoe beamed into her eyes.
"Vincent—Don't." She shook her head, her lungs growing tight and unable to expand. Kicking her legs up, she scooted herself along the carpet.
With one swift kick, his foot lodged deep into the middle of her stomach. He shifted his weight to the opposite foot. Lifting the other, he dug the point of his show into her gut, once more.
She gasped for air, to no avail. Heaving, she fought for just a breath. In her vision, black spots began to form; her arms clung tightly to her stomach.
'Don't let him die, please. Lord, please,' she pleaded mentally.
Vincent's leg lifted once again before her vision become nothing but darkness.
