The Rusty Nail, December 2012
by D.T. Robbins
Worlds Apart aggie squinted, piercing through the heavy downpour of rain outside of her window which began last Thursday and had no intentions of letting up for several more days. Noticing that the movers had forgotten to close the back of the U-HAUL, leaving a few boxes of her kitchenware subject to the storm, she cursed under her breath. She thought about rushing quickly outside to close the latch before any serious damage could be done, but it was already a few minutes until six, and Dennis would walk through the door at any moment. Her hands trembled as she wrapped them around her chest to keep warm now that all electricity had been cut off, leaving no heat in the apartment. It was always colder when it rained. And it always seemed to rain. Maggie left one box of Dennis’ things near the fireplace. She finally had the will to pack it all up several months after the incident. The excitement of her marriage’s demise and its promise of imminent liberty coupled with her unforeseen sorrow from the horrifying set of circumstances that lead to their separation left her in an emotional frenzy with an inability to recall anything she had placed in the cardboard box. As she slowly revealed its contents, a flashlight spilled onto the floor. Maggie flicked the ON/OFF button to test the dead batteries. There was still some dried blood near the lens from the time Dennis had broken her nose with it. Her eyes began to well as the surprisingly vivid image of a drunken, angry Dennis smashing the heavy tool into her face repeatedly flitted across her mind. Maggie looked on the empty living room to find the corner where she curled up, crying, as he yelled at her to shut up and finish making him dinner. Wiping her eyes, she heard a key insert the lock and slowly turn. She looked at her watch again. It was six o’clock. Everything stood at a halt. Dennis had arrived. As it was on every Tuesday afternoon when he would return, Dennis took an eternity to unveil himself behind the door, peaking his head as to reveal what exactly he was walking into. Looking as though some sort of mistake had been made at the sight of the empty apartment, Dennis began to call out for Maggie. “Yea, over here,” she replied, coldly. He stepped cautiously across the eggshell-colored carpet, allowing the door to close on its own. The apartment was entirely bare as though there had been no previous tenants. Noticing the absence of the bookshelf against the east wall, he observed the perfectly in-tact area where once had been a blotch of black carpet he had accidentally burned when a candle fell over and set fire to the floor during their second anniversary dinner. “You can’t come here anymore, Dennis,” Maggie spat, interrupting his investigation.
Unintentionally, he ignored her. “You’re leaving?” Maggie swiftly glided across the living room into the kitchen. Dennis followed. “Why?!” “Are you serious? You knew this was coming. I told you I was leaving.” She stared at him furiously, unable to understand how he could not see precisely why she had to leave. Why she couldn’t continue living the way they had been living over the past two months. Why she loathed him. In her mind, she berated him for his refusal to respect this decision. Dennis stood without a word, incapable of fully accepting the situation at hand. After growing weary of his silence, she motioned to the sink, “Hand me my purse, if you can manage it.” Dennis snapped to, and obliged. Maggie pulled out her cigarettes and lit one up, nervously. “Just explain to me. Why?” he insisted. “Don’t do that, Dennis. Don’t act like I don’t have good damn reason to never want to see you again.” Dennis shook his head. “That wasn’t me. You know that.” “Yea, well, from where I’m standing you still look very much like you. And that’s all I care about. You can show up here with your save-all attitude and shit and act like you’re not the person I remember, but every time I see your face I still see the same useless prick of a human being you always were,” she took a brave step forward, “and I want to put a bullet in your fucking skull.” He wanted to be angry with her. To yell and scream at her about how great of a mistake she was making. To tear her apart. But he knew there was no point. Neither of them were the same anymore. At least, not to each other. As she shot mental daggers at him, she wore the same expression of anger and fear as she did the day he first walked into the apartment two months ago. She had stumbled over the coffee table, fell to the floor, and reached for a scream that terror had refused her vocal cords. She shot from the ground with violence and force, and attacked Dennis with all her strength. Equally in shock, he threw himself against the wall and soon peeled off his attacker. “You’re...you’re not supposed to be here!” “You have every right to leave, I know,” he said, “I just don’t want you to. I want to try and make....whatever this is...work.” Maggie shook her head, taking a deep breath. “You’re my wife!” he pleaded. She put her cigarette out in the sink and washing it down the drain. “I’m not.” “Maggie...” he began. “Stop it! I’m not doing this right now.”
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