Tequila Americano

17. fireworks

His lips trembled with a tranquil-looking, but evil-sounding snicker. His fingers latched onto her throat and pushed her head back against the wall.

"I've given you everything, you ungrateful little bitch. You do as I say. When I say."

Fear bloomed in her chest but as its petals unravelled, it transformed into fury.

"No!" she screamed and kneed him in the groin.

He doubled over, releasing his hold on her, and she ran like her life depended on it.

Jack caught up with her at his apartment, not long after she'd managed to rid herself of her suffocating dress. She'd dropped it in a heap on the living room floor.

"Ingrid!" he shouted. "Ingrid! Get out here, right now!" He kicked at the fabric, before he picked it up out of his way and threw it aside.

"I'm not your fucking toy, Jack!" she yelled back at him, emerging with a vengeance from the bedroom. "I'm not for sale! I'm your wife, Jack, not a commodity you can share with your pals whenever you feel like it!"

He struck her across the face. So hard, she nearly lost her balance. She pressed her palm to her burning cheek, unable to turn her head and look at him. Tasted blood in her mouth.

"What do you think you are, then? You were nothing – you are nothing without me! Just some third-world gypsy whore who'd still be waiting tables and sucking dick for a living, if not for me!"

He poked a patch of bare chest behind the half-unbuttoned shirt. Eyes wild with wrath and hair dishevelled, he looked like a madman who'd escaped from the asylum.

"I civilised you, you ungrateful little bitch! I raised you up from some godforsaken shithole and made a respectable woman out of you, you belong to me," again with the chest poking, "you do what I tell you to, you stinking, spoiled brat!"

When he was done, Ingrid stood listening to him pant, until he spun on his heel and strode away. She heard the front door slam shut and that freed her from her frightened trance. Sobbing violently, she collapsed on the floor and wailed.

*

January, 2018

Ingrid quietly snuck out amidst excited cheers as the Times Square Ball dropped on TV and the cork sprang from the champagne bottle. The living room walls seemed to close in on her and she escaped upstairs, to the first-floor landing, where she stopped to stare out the window.

Edgar soon appeared at her side in the darkness. He stood beside her, silent in the shadows, as she watched the sky ignite with a myriad of exploding lights. It sounded strange, how the noise came muffled through the thick glass pane, mixed with the distant cacophony floating up from the living room.

The fireworks filled the sky with sparks and smoke, ushering in the new year and, despite herself, Ingrid felt tears trickle down her cheeks. Sniffling, she reached up to wipe them and Edgar must have heard her, because he put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him.

"Life goes on," he murmured, "the world keeps spinning. All we can do is our best as we spin along."

"I killed him," she mumbled into his chest. "Four years ago today, I wished him dead and then he died."

"No, Ingrid, that's..." He held her upper arms, tipping her chin to look into her eyes. "That wasn't your fault. Whatever happened, it wasn't your fault the man was deranged."

She laughed, her vision blurry. If he only knew...

"Maybe I should try believing in Satan," she added, "as opposed to God. Turns out he's actually listening and making your wishes come true."