The Accident
By Liza Larregui
“Ralphie, if you could just, please, make the table for dinner?” I said, holding our seven month old daughter, Becca, in my arms. I hadn’t realized yet the devil that lurked in his eyes.
“Are you kiddin’, Tess?” He stammered, drunk, as usual.
“Never mind. I didn’t realize how incapable you were today. Again. Why don’t you just wash up and go to bed? I’ll take care of everything, as usual.”
I placed baby Becca in the playpen that occupied most of our living room space, and hurried to the kitchen. It was seven o’clock and Becca needed her milk. Ralph wouldn’t have known that. It had been three months since Ralph had been home before midnight. Why did I think that day, of all days, would be any different? Why did I even bother asking for help, when I knew deep down, I’d be rejected? Why did I continue to live as a victim? I had no answers.
“I’m... going... to take... Becca... for a shower.” Ralph enunciated his words. He did that when he felt that he needed to prove he was sober. It only proved how ridiculous he was.
“Oh, no, you are not, Ralphie. I think you need to go upstairs. Please.” I said, picking Becca up, in fear he’d get to her first. “You know babies don’t take showers.” I tried treating him like a small child. I figured the soft tones might make him understand me, or at the very least, listen to me.
“Is there a reason you won’t let me take care of my daughter?” He said, as he swayed side to side, walking to where I was.
“Ralphie, you have had a lot to drink. You need to go upstairs and take it easy. I will give Becca her bottle and put her down to bed. If you go upstairs, I will meet you there in a few minutes. Okay?” I said, hoping he would comprehend, though knowing he wouldn’t.
Looking into his eyes, it appeared he had understood something I had said. I loved him. I truly did. I had missed the days before Becca. Before he became this...thing.
I remember coming home to a different man. A man who loved me. A man who cared. I wondered what had happened.
Just as Ralphie reached the top of the stairs, he looked down at me over the railing and whispered something. I couldn’t make it out.
“What was that you said?” I asked.
“I love you, Tess.” Just as a tear rolled down my cheek, I heard the tumble. I couldn’t see it. I only remember a blur. I ran to the landing, where my husband had fallen to, and stood in shock over his lifeless body. Becca cried. Her tears soaking my shirt. Her cries numbing me.
My tears came faster, heavier. I kneeled down next to him and held Becca close to my chest. As the minutes wore on, I realized my sadness had turned to relief. I was no longer a victim. I was free.
- - -
Liza Larregui has been writing since she learned how to use a typewriter at the age of five. Only recently has she decided to submit her work for publishing. She lives in NYC with her husband and her MacBook.
By Liza Larregui
“Ralphie, if you could just, please, make the table for dinner?” I said, holding our seven month old daughter, Becca, in my arms. I hadn’t realized yet the devil that lurked in his eyes.
“Are you kiddin’, Tess?” He stammered, drunk, as usual.
“Never mind. I didn’t realize how incapable you were today. Again. Why don’t you just wash up and go to bed? I’ll take care of everything, as usual.”
I placed baby Becca in the playpen that occupied most of our living room space, and hurried to the kitchen. It was seven o’clock and Becca needed her milk. Ralph wouldn’t have known that. It had been three months since Ralph had been home before midnight. Why did I think that day, of all days, would be any different? Why did I even bother asking for help, when I knew deep down, I’d be rejected? Why did I continue to live as a victim? I had no answers.
“I’m... going... to take... Becca... for a shower.” Ralph enunciated his words. He did that when he felt that he needed to prove he was sober. It only proved how ridiculous he was.
“Oh, no, you are not, Ralphie. I think you need to go upstairs. Please.” I said, picking Becca up, in fear he’d get to her first. “You know babies don’t take showers.” I tried treating him like a small child. I figured the soft tones might make him understand me, or at the very least, listen to me.
“Is there a reason you won’t let me take care of my daughter?” He said, as he swayed side to side, walking to where I was.
“Ralphie, you have had a lot to drink. You need to go upstairs and take it easy. I will give Becca her bottle and put her down to bed. If you go upstairs, I will meet you there in a few minutes. Okay?” I said, hoping he would comprehend, though knowing he wouldn’t.
Looking into his eyes, it appeared he had understood something I had said. I loved him. I truly did. I had missed the days before Becca. Before he became this...thing.
I remember coming home to a different man. A man who loved me. A man who cared. I wondered what had happened.
Just as Ralphie reached the top of the stairs, he looked down at me over the railing and whispered something. I couldn’t make it out.
“What was that you said?” I asked.
“I love you, Tess.” Just as a tear rolled down my cheek, I heard the tumble. I couldn’t see it. I only remember a blur. I ran to the landing, where my husband had fallen to, and stood in shock over his lifeless body. Becca cried. Her tears soaking my shirt. Her cries numbing me.
My tears came faster, heavier. I kneeled down next to him and held Becca close to my chest. As the minutes wore on, I realized my sadness had turned to relief. I was no longer a victim. I was free.
- - -
Liza Larregui has been writing since she learned how to use a typewriter at the age of five. Only recently has she decided to submit her work for publishing. She lives in NYC with her husband and her MacBook.
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