Urge to Kill

The bedroom light winked on, blinding her at first, so she clenched her eyes tightly closed and pressed her face into the pillow. She kept her eyes shut and didn’t move.

Hobbs knew she was awake. He knew all her evasive tricks.

“Lavern?”

She sighed, opened her eyes, and sat up blinking in the light. She was an attractive woman with honey-blond hair and blue eyes. Her slender figure was shapely but without much of a bust. (Years ago she’d considered breast implants, and was glad now she hadn’t gotten them. They’d be another vulnerability.) Her features were a bit too long to be beautiful, her lips full and not quite meeting because of a slight overbite Hobbs used to tell her was sexy. Her pink nightgown slid down one shoulder, almost exposing one breast that truly was the size of a teacup.

Hobbs loomed over her, all six feet of him; he was almost forty now but was still burly and hard from playing college football until he’d blown out his right knee. Still had the buzz cut that made his angular features seem as cruel as a Roman emperor’s. That harshness of countenance was made even more extreme by the coldness in his eyes that were almost exactly the same shade of blue as his wife’s. But while Lavern’s eyes were soft and resigned, Hobbs’s eyes were as hard and reflecting as diamonds.

Lavern hadn’t known Hobbs in college, though she’d been aware of him. They’d met on First Avenue six years later when sharing a cab out of necessity during a downpour; they were two people unfortunate enough to be going the same way—though of course they’d both thought it lucky at the time. They had so much in common—or so she’d been led to believe—and at first the sex had been undeniably great.

The relationship had worked for a while. Long enough for them to marry with romantic feigned impetuousness, helped along by a night of hard drinking during a weekend in Las Vegas.

It was after the marriage that they came to know each other better. That was when the real Hobbs emerged. Or possibly he’d been there all along and Lavern had loved him too much to notice the signs.

He’d removed his shirt, but hadn’t taken off his pants. She noticed the empty belt loops and knew he’d removed his leather belt. There it was in his right hand, dangling and doubled and portending pain.

What have I done now?

His voice was level, but still carried a quiet menace. “The towels, Lavern.”

Her mind danced frantically. She had no idea what he was talking about. “What towels?”

“In the bathroom. I take a piss, wash my hands, and the goddamned towels are filthy. You didn’t even hang them up straight. Damned things were bunched under the towel rack so they’d stay damp. That’s how disease spreads, Lavern.”

She was bewildered. He actually seemed serious.

“I’ll go see,” she said, and slid sideways to get out of bed.

The belt caught her in the ribs, but she didn’t cry out. She knew better than to make noise. The neighbors mustn’t be disturbed. The neighbors mustn’t know.

She grunted with pain and bent low enough that her elbows rested on her knees.

“Stand up, Lavern. Take your medicine.”

She knew then it wasn’t really the towels that bothered Hobbs. It was his sickness, the thing inside his heart that made him hurt with a nameless rage that from time to time would be directed at her.

As she fought her agony and straightened her body, he surprised her by not using the belt. He used the flat of his hand instead, slapping her left cheek hard enough to spin her head so it felt as if it might snap from her spine. She tasted blood and saw a tiny red splatter on the dresser mirror all the way across the bedroom.

He gripped her by one arm and jerked her upright so she was standing straight again, as if teeing her up for another blow.

Violence came as easy to him as laughter. One of his friends had reminded Lavern that Hobbs had barely escaped being kicked out of college for almost killing another student with his fists in an argument over a movie. She vaguely remembered the incident, the talk on campus. He would have been expelled, only that was before he hurt his knee, and he could still bowl people over at football. Assault charges had been dropped, and the matter had been classified as an incident of boys being boys, when it should have been a clear warning.

Not that any of this was relevant to Lavern’s present circumstances. She knew she wouldn’t have heeded any warning. Not at that age. Not even when she was older. Just Hobbs being Hobbs, she had decided, along with the faculty. Like almost everyone else, she had excused him his youthful misbehavior. He was fun to watch on the football field. There was even talk of a possible pro contract. Lavern had wondered from time to time if there might be some way to meet him.

Then had come the knee injury, and soon thereafter she’d heard that he’d left school.

The mature Hobbs shoved her back into the bed and wrestled her almost inert body around so she lay on her back.