A Red Deeper than the Morning Sun
By: Josh Petersen
Tags: The Weekly Knob, 237, Fiction, Writing, Writing Prompts

A Red Deeper than the Morning Sun

Blood trickled from Marcy Hunt’s nose. She wiped it with the back of her hand, stood up, and dusted the broken glass from her skirt. Doing her best to compose herself.

She swept up the shattered plate he’d hurled at her and dropped the remnants into the trash.

She could hear his shower running upstairs which meant she had fifteen minutes to get his dinner ready or there’d be the possibility of another plate thrown her way.

She boiled some water, threw in some noodles, and heated up tomato sauce.

She scarfed down her portion before he came down and stood to wait patiently in the kitchen until he sat at the dining room table.

Only tonight he didn’t come sit at the table. Instead, he fell into his La-Z-Boy in front of the TV.

Timidly, Marcy approached Connor Hunt. He wasn’t a large man, but he was bigger than Marcy, with an anger so deep and heated it made him seem three times his actual size.

“I… I made you supper,” Marcy managed.

Connor didn’t bother looking at his wife. Didn’t care to see the crusted blood beneath her nose or the crimson stains on her dress.

“Bring me a beer,” was all he said.

Marcy retreated to the kitchen and grabbed a cold Bud Light out of the fridge.

She stared at the back of Connor’s head, tempted to chuck the beer can at the pathetic man she’d married, but something deep inside her held her back. Fear? Partially. Guilt mostly.

He wasn’t always this way. His behavior changed after the car accident. He’d hurt his back and stopped working. Now he sat on the couch all day, drinking beer, and yelling at the TV — still collecting a check for the injury. Marcy believed losing his self worth is what changed him, and because she was the one driving… she felt some sort of guilt that kept her around. Kept her putting up with the abuse.

Politely she handed Connor his beer and muttered softly, “I’m going to bed.”

Connor was too engrossed in some sports program to respond, so silently Marcy left.

In bed, she wept large tears and sniffled into her pillow. She thought she was being quiet but apparently not because she didn’t hear her husband come in.

“What are you crying about?” He demanded.

Marcy stilled herself but didn’t respond.

“Huh, Red Nose?” That was his latest nickname for her. She didn’t know if it was because her nose was red from all the sniffling or from the blood. Probably the sniffling because it seemed to be the nickname he preferred for her when she cried. “Why the tears?”

Marcy still said nothing but tensed, waiting for him to grab her. To force himself on her. Something. But he didn’t do any of that. Not tonight anyway, and for that she was grateful. He just climbed into bed and moments later began snoring.

Marcy laid awake, becoming numb to her life.

Eventually Marcy did find sleep and when she did, a pleasant dream ensued.

It was the middle of December but she could feel warm sand between her toes. A gust of hot wind kissed her neck. She was on a beach all by herself. No Connor in sight. She savored the moment. Feeling her light skin bronzing under the golden sun.

Then deep snores woke her from the dream and brought her back to her harsh reality.

She cried hard. She couldn’t help herself. She hated her life. Hated her husband. She cried so hard it woke the devil of a man beside her.

He just laughed at her, “More tears, Red Nose?” Then he rolled over and began snoring again.

She longed to smash her fists on his head, over and over again. Instead, she laid still as stone. Her emotions vanishing like the pleasant dream and being replaced once again with cold numbness.