Short Story Workshop: Be a Man
bubbles
posted by Zoe from Chic and Sassy on Tuesday, December 19, 2006
A Little About The Author
My name's Katalina. I thrive on expressing myself through written words upon white paper. Fantasy is my favorite genre--Neil Gaiman being my favorite fantasy writer. My style of writing is very much influenced by Margaret Atwood, however--whom I consider to be one of the best contemporary writers. Read my story to judge for yourself. Why not pay a visit to my blog to read more of my fiction at http://elusivekatalina.blogspot.com.
'Be a Man' is a story about a very successful woman and her mediocre
timid husband, who eventually erupts. It's a story with a twist in the tail.
The night had crawled in furtively, without notice. Karen was only aware of it when she felt warm fingers gently caressing her thigh. Peering through the fashionable square lens perched on her nose; she raised an eyebrow and twitched her lip in disapproval. That meant no. She turned her attention back to the bright screen in front of her, her fingers tapping the keys speedily and soundlessly.
For once, just once, he would dearly love to take hold of the black machine that lay intimately in her lap, and throw it across the room. Then, he would ravish her, glasses knocked askew, hair in loose damp tendrils, the usually tight knot unraveled. He looked at her again, sitting upright against a pillow in a black silk robe, her entire attention upon meaningless symbols on a screen. He might as well be a block of wood, ignored and overlooked. Old and forgotten. An obsolete in this age of sterile technology.
Unable to do anything, he slept, disgruntled and dissatisfied.
When he was a young boy, he was a mother's dream. He would obey all school rules. Well, almost all. He never obeyed the rule about not bringing outside food into the canteen. To him, it was incomprehensible, like telling someone in the middle of a field to get off the grass without stepping on the grass. Besides, his mother fully encouraged him to break the rule, packing his lunches for him with a bright wicked grin on her face, as if relishing the prospect of rebellion. Then, he would carry his yellow lunchbox to school carefully, opening it with impatient fingers in the school canteen during recess. His food was greeted with enthusiasm not only by him, but by his friends as well, who usually tried to trade their limp tuna sandwiches with his golden-brown Cornish meat pies.
His lunches were the source of his popularity when he was young. As he got older, however, he realized that friends were not so easily impressed with meat pies and brownies anymore. They wanted more complex things, invisible things. A thing called status. Never the same; it was always changing like a weathervane in a wind. It puzzled him very much, and he grew to abhor it. But his abhorrence was not the cool, devil-may-care type, swathed in leather and an arrogant smile. It was in the opposite direction that he unfortunately fell in-the geeks. Everyone's favorite target. He was no less popular. The constant bullying left an indelible mark on him, tearing his self-confidence, leaving him frightened and angry, yet unable to lash out. The burning hostility simmered inside; small sparks exploding at innocent targets like his dog and younger brother. Most of it still remained, festering like an open sore at the taunting girls in miniskirts, and the loud boys with aggressive sneers and strong cruel arms.
But all that was gone now. He was married to a beautiful woman. Not just beautiful, he mentally corrected himself, but strong and successful too, as she always reminded him.
"Bye dear." Karen kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Have a good day at work."
"Of course," he smiled brightly as she tottered off on her professional yet trendy heels.
He finished his lukewarm coffee and left the cup in the sink. Looking at his watch, he realized that he’d have to leave fairly quickly if he wanted to be punctual. He cast one look at the cup in the sink, its dirty white china in stark contrasted against the gleaming sink. He glanced at his watch again—he was late. He'd have to go. Then, he remembered the narrowed gray eyes, slightly quivering upper lip. If there was one thing she hated more than anything else, it was mess. He started to move away, but his feet would not inch.
"Oh, what the heck." He switched on the tap, rinsed the cup quickly and left it on the side to dry. Hopefully, she wouldn’t notice the slight brown tinges inside the cup. Grabbing his coat on the chair, he ran out and sped away in his car.
"Late again!" The file of papers slammed against the smooth mahogany desk. Expensive stuff. Meant to impress. However, looking around at the ostentatiously furnished office, he was less than impressed. Everything was an excess of oil and silk, smoothness that irritated, the stink of money lingering in the corners. Mr. Kragner's face was bright red, and the fat lips were moving rapidly, occasional flecks of spit landing on the smooth rich wood of the desk.
"How many bloody times has this happened already? You idiot! Late reports, bad sales. What the hell are you trying to do? Get your ass fired?"
He opened his mouth, ready to spill it all and reveal the truth of his incompetent teammate, Alan. Incompetent, but persuasive-a lethal combination. "Come on, buddy. I don't know what else to do! You know what'll happen if ole Kraggie hears of this. He'll kick me out of here faster than I can say 'prick!' And I need this job so bad. He won't dare fire you. You've been in here too long."
"I'll buy you a beer," he added. "Go for a few rounds with the boys." He quirked his mouth, just a little. The meaning was clear as sky. No one was more popular than Alan-the smooth talker, life of the party. If it wasn't for him, he probably wouldn't have fit in so well with the rest of them. At least here, he was tolerated. Maybe even liked, if he dared hope. And Alan never failed to remind him of that.
He closed his mouth. He could not speak. And so the barrage of insults and curses continued, shredding the skin of the heart, drawing blood.
Stand up for yourself, you idiot, a voice sneered.
I can't.
Wuss. No wonder she walks all over you. No wonder they ALL laugh at you behind your back, kick your ass when you're down. Loser. You pathetic wimp!
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
You can't shut me up. You can shut HIM up though, but you don't want to. No, not that. You can't. Wuss.
SHUT UP!!!
"What's that, Burns?"
"W-what?" he shook his head and looked disjointedly at his boss.
"Get the hell out of here," Kragner said, disgustedly. "One more slip, and you're fired."
He left almost as soon as the clock struck five, unable to stomach anymore of the sympathetic (secretly gleeful?) looks of his colleagues. One more pat from Alan, and he would punch him square on the jaw. He swore he would. Alan patted him again, but of course, he did nothing. Instead, he just left when five came.
"Alan, Bruce still here?" Lucy the secretary asked. "Phone call from his wife."
"No, babe. He's gone back. Probably to lick his wounds," Alan snickered.
On the way back home, he brooded. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get rid of the words that bounced around his head.
Wuss. Loser. Chicken. Wimp.
Again and again. Round and round they bounced.
By the time he reached home, it was late. He had stopped at a pub earlier on, deciding to test the truth of 'drowning one's sorrows'. It worked. In fact, he didn't feel so afraid anymore. If anyone messed with him, why, he'd just give him a clean sock on the jaw. Time to stand up and fight. Yes siree. Now, the world would listen to Bruce. He was the king. The boss.
In this spirit, he opened the door, his hand a trifle unsteady. Kicking off his shoes, he noticed an unfamiliar pair of trendy expensive shoes. She'd probably gone off on another one of her high-powered shopping trips, to match her high-powered lifestyle, to suit her high need for power. Well, tonight was different. Bruce giggled to himself. Tonight, he would show her who's the boss.
He walked up the stairs, his footsteps muffled by the thick cloth of his socks.
Underneath his bedroom door, he could see dim light spilling through the narrow gap. She was probably on her laptop, making love to it, instead of to her rightful husband. Bitch. How he stood with her all these years, he didn't know. Well, it was time to make her perform her wifely duties.
Bruce opened the door quietly and walked in. "Hello honey."
"Hi Bruce!" the woman replied cheerily, looking up from her laptop. "Listen, I know this is a bit sudden and all. Just hope you don't mind. Borrowed some stuff from her wardrobe like she said."
The words made no coherent sense to Bruce. He had no idea what she was talking about. Weren't shoes kept in closets, not wardrobes? Whatever it was, she shouldn't be working, closing million-dollar deals and clinching yet another award. She had enough to fill a bloody museum. His anger rose, burning in him like whiskey going down the throat. Some wife she was, smiling at him as if nothing was wrong, as if everything was the way it should be. The successful wife and her puppy-dog husband. Give the begging dog a few pats, yes that's it, and he'll run away happy, tail wagging in the air. He clenched his fists, his eyes bleary and red with rage.
With a growl, he jumped onto the bed, pinning her arms down. She gave a surprised cry. Not this time. This time, he would be satisfied. He would stand up like a man. Tall, strong, aggressive. He started to rip her clothes off; her desperate fearful cries sweet music to his ears. She tried to push him off her, but he was much stronger, even in his drunken state. He held her arms down, enjoying the power he had over her, her resistance helplessly decreasing, heightening his pleasure. Then, she bit him suddenly on the arm. He shouted in pain, and punched her eye back in rage. She was quiet after that. Subdued. Bruce smiled at his conquest.
Early next morning, Bruce awoke to an empty spot beside him. He rubbed his temples; his head felt as if it was bursting. He tried to remember what happened last night. Got drunk, and yes, he had sex with his wife. Finally, after so many months! It was time she did what she was meant to do. With a smile on his face, he showered and dressed himself. When he got down, he saw her reading the newspaper, the papers hiding her face.
"Good morning, Karen!" he greeted sunnily. "Isn't it an absolutely lovely day?"
He opened the fridge, and took out a milk carton, drinking straight from it, all the while keeping an eye on the woman. He knew how much she hated that habit of his, never failing to pierce him with her gimlet gaze. Where were those stone eyes of hers now? Hidden behind ink and old paper, covered with shame. Swaggering towards the dining table, he pulled up a chair and sat directly opposite her.
"Come on Karen, don't I get a morning kiss?" he grinned.
No answer.
Frustration began to claw at him. He ripped the papers down, expecting to see cold gray eyes, insolent and rebellious.
However, he did not see insolence and rebellion. He didn't even see gray eyes.
They were blue-large and fearful like lambs to the slaughter.
"Jenny?" he whispered, his fork clattering to the floor.
Jenny, one of Karen's closest friends, nodded. The fear vanished and was replaced by despise and loathing.
"You idiotic bastard."
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