The Martini

There was a small  room at the back of the house.  No bigger than a large walk-in closet, the room had only one pentagonal window that overlooked the mediocre backyard and could fit, at most, one twin-size bed and maybe a small dresser.  The Realtor had speculated that the room was intended as a servant’s quarters, but the house was so small that it was hard to believe its owners would be wealthy enough for a servant.  Presently, it was decorated from floor to low ceiling with floral paper that gave the whole room a pinkish hue.  A white upholstered recliner was the main focal point, and a wooden end table stood to one side of it, piled high with books; a copy of Gulliver’s Travels sat dog-eared on the floor.  This was Tara Quaker’s favorite hiding place.  1

Tara was tall and slender.  She was 32 and married, but she had no children as of yet.  She had deep cerulean eyes and her hair--naturally chestnut brown--was dyed the color of dry straw. This was only on the request of her husband, Leonard Quaker.  She was quiet, sensitive and she aimed to please.  Sometimes, though, she needed to get away, and as she was not permitted to drive, the back room served as Tara’s sole means of escape.  There, she could sit and read, head phones blocking every scream and shout her husband’s drunken figure let loose. 2

“Tara!”  The scream was slurred and broken.  It emanated from Leonard and penetrated her headphones. She turned up the volume, but the sound of his fists pounding on the door of her haven could not be tuned out.  Each strike vibrated across the floor to her.  He’s going to knock it down again, she thought.  Tara stood up, trying to get as far away from the door as possible, lest the shards of broken wood pierce her skin again.  Last month it had taken 16 stitches to close the wounds the shrapnel had given her.  3

“Tara,” he shouted again, “get out here! What the hell are you doing in there?  Let me in!”  The door gave way praying her with splinters. The stench of stale liqueur quickly filled the room. Tara couldn’t speak.  She was afraid to speak. The man that had once been her kind, loving husband was now the cause of her nightmares and scars.  Bruises shone on her body, but she couldn’t blame Leonard.  No, her enemy was the countless bottles of rum, scotch and beer that had used her husband’s fists as their weapons against her.4

“Get out of this room, Tara.  Did I say you could be in this room? I hate this damn room!”  His hand grabbed her shoulder, shoving her towards the empty door frame.  She closed her eye and let him drag her.  She gave into the familiar feeling of being completely torn from herself.  From this moment until the night was over she would no longer be Tara Quaker, but one of the innumerable slaves of the bottle.  It didn’t matter that she would never touch a drop of alcohol; Tara was more controlled by her husband’s habit than he was.  When they were first married, she led a normal life.  She had a job at the local bank and ate lunch with her friends from high school every day.  Eventually, though, everything changed.  Leonard did not approve of her friends, and so she brought her lunch to work.  Soon enough however, Leonard decided that a woman’s place is in the home, and she stayed in each, cleaning and cooking like a good wife.  She’d stopped driving, too, because she didn’t have a car and he never let her drive his clanging piece of tin.  5

At night, all the things she had given up for him were no longer enough.  He came home late, drunk and angry; the best lock in the world could never keep him out of her room.  It didn’t matter anymore.   By now, she was numb to his cold touch and cruel word.  Is this what you want, Tara? her former best friend’s words ran through her head.  Of course it was, wasn’t it? She loved him. Of course it was what she wanted, right?6

“No.”  It was quiet, but not enough.  He stopped tugging and braced himself on wall next to the door.  7

“What?” he asked, loudly, gripping her upper arm tightly.  8

“No!” she screamed.  She pulled herself away from him, backing into the end table.  This was not what she wanted.  Not when she married him, and certainly not now.  “No!”  Tara reached grabbed the knob of the table draw and pulled it open forcefully.  The whole draw came free, tossing its contents to the floor.  Among them, Leonard’s hand fell, thudding against the exposed wood.  She could barely remember hiding it in that draw, but she thanked God now that she had.  9

Tara lunged.  The gun was pointed at her husband before she was standing upright again.  Leonard’s voice was suddenly soft…almost as it had been when they were newly weds.  “Tara, you don’t need to do this.  It’s me, your Leon.  I love you, Tara.  I’ve given you everything.  You know you could never kill me.”10

“No, I can’t,” Tara said, her voice stronger than she had heard it in years, “but I can’t live like this any more.”  11

The shot still echoed in Leonard’s ears when he sat down in his wife’s chair with a freshly poured martini in his hand.  He couldn’t understand it.  He had worked hard to give her wife a beautiful home.  He made enough money for the both of them so she would never have to work again.  He had loved her.  What had gone wrong?  How could she have taken her own life? He set the glass on the table, and it wasn’t until the alcohol splashed out onto her books that he realized it.  She hadn’t killed herself.  No, her reflection was shining clear in his glass.  12

The gun was still hot in her hand, but Leonard had pulled the trigger.13