Stupid Mailbox

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There is no explicit sex in this 'snapshot' in time. I wish to thank the people who helped contribute to and edit this story, per their wishes, they remain anonymous. This story is totally fictitious; any resemblance the characters might have to persons living or deceased is purely coincidental. No part of this story may be published at any other site without the express permission of the author. © February 23, 2008

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The rock just barely missed the mailbox as it sailed past. Through tear blurred eyes, he suddenly dropped to his knees, then angrily reached down and grabbed another handful from the gravel drive. Picking out the biggest, he took careful aim and threw with all his might.

The sound of banging metal was satisfying, but he knew, 'If I keep throwing at that stupid mailbox from this position, the next victim will be my back…. Loosing my marriage was enough.'

Beneath his knees, the small stones were digging in, but he didn't feel a thing. His emotional pain was overbearing as he thought, 'She'll never set foot in this house again.'

His wife, Karen, had just left, slinging gravel as she peeled out. Her dust still hung in the air.

Living in the country had its advantages, and not having nosey neighbors was at the top of the list. Feeling the need, he let loose and cried out, "Why? Oh God… please, tell me why."

Suddenly filled with rage, he jumped up, and started rapidly firing, but two hits out of six attempts only made him madder. "Stupid mailbox," he shouted.

'Seven… seven years shot to hell… all because of one… God, how I hate that fucking bitch,' he thought while palming the last rock. Drawing a solid bead on the poor mailbox, he let loose with all the fury he could muster. His flash of pride was short lived as it ricocheted off the back of the small metal enclosure into the rear window of his car.

"Oh fuck," he half shouted as the sickening sound caused him to dash over, only to discover there was no damage. Unlike the pain in his gut, he couldn't even tell where it had hit.

"How could she do this to me?" He wondered out loud, recalling, 'We've been best friends for years, I never dreamed she was capable of this. I trusted her with everything.'

Dropping back down to his knees, his shoulders shook as he cried like a baby. While wracking his brain, searching for relief, he thought, 'The special moments are all I can seem to remember…. God they make it hurt soooo,' but then suddenly realized, 'truth is, there weren't many bad times.

'I'll never forget the day I first saw Karen. We ended up in a class together and were assigned seats next to each other. The very moment our eyes met, I knew she was devoted to me. I fell so hard and fast, there was no doubt… I was in love. From that moment on, we were inseparable,' he recalled.

"Dear God… why did she do it?" He asked again.

All at once, the knowledge of what had been lost felt suffocating. As his energy drained, he laid over on his side, paying no attention to the hard uneven surface. With each of his sobs, his breath created a small cloud of dust as he wallowed in the agony of his own pain.

'Wait,' he thought, 'maybe I can call Karen and… but no, I can't…. I have to be a man bout this. It was her choice and she made it.'

After a while, the gravel began to tenderize his skin and cause his muscles to hurt. Slowly he rose up, his cheeks streaked with a mixture of dirt and tears. Now his body ached, but weirdly it felt good, helping to distract his thoughts from the inner pain that still encompassed his heart.

In a daze, he slowly lifted his hand and rubbed his muddy cheek. As a few pieces of small pebbles pulled lose into his palm, he realized where the sharp pressure like pains had come from.

Still in shock, he entered his house. Unable to think or comprehend, he just stood in the center of what was now, his living room. Finally his mental funk was overcome by thirst. Aware enough to realize not just any liquid would do, he wanted one with alcohol, something that would kill, or at least numb the pain.

The first thing in the fridge that came into view was an almost full bottle of champagne, left over from their fifth anniversary party last week.

"Well it ain't hard liquor," he said to himself, "but it's stronger than wine."

After taking a very short moment to reflect on the situation, without a smile, he came up with the ironic thought, 'What a drink. Good for all seasons, whether "getting down" or "getting away". "Wine Makers of the World"… my sorrows salute you.'

With that, the bottle was turned up and chugged until he choked. As the cold fluid flowed from his nostrils with a burning sensation, he thought, 'Fuck!'

Wiping his nose on his sleeve, he had a slight feeling of guilt, then suddenly realized, 'I don't have to act civilized any more.'

This time, there was no choking. Half the bottle was gone before he stopped to breath and said, "Damn, that's good shit. I'm already starting to feel a buzz."

Glancing back into the refrigerator, he spotted another bottle of the 'bubbly,' only this one was unopened. Very carefully he lifted it up over the jars and containers sitting in front of it.

With a bottle in each hand he was now prepared for the evening as he turned around and with a backward kick shut the frig door. The rattling sounds told him it was too hard. After hesitating for just a second… he finally shrugged his shoulders, said, "Fuck it," and headed for the bedroom.

The bottle hanging at his side stuck out behind him, held in a death grip by its slender neck. The other, clasped vertically to his chest, became horizontal as he stopped to take a long draw from it.

At the bedroom door he paused, staring at the unmade bed where he and Karen had just made love that morning… before everything exploded.

Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks as his pain returned in full force, obliterating what little relief had been gained from the now almost empty bottle.

In her hurry to escape, Karen had been sobbing as she threw all the clothes she could stuff in two suitcases before rushing out the door.

The bra and panties she had worn yesterday still lay in the far corner. 'Damn,' he thought, 'just where I tossed them last night, after stripping them from her sexy body.'

At the visual memory, his knees buckled. Collapsing onto the bed, he paid little attention to the dirt and sand that was deposited onto the sheets. While writhing about on the bed, his whole body shook as he once more sobbed in despair.

A wet spot suddenly caught his attention. His curiosity was short lived as he watched a trickle of champagne slosh from the open bottle. Closing his eyes, he pulled it to his lips and finished off what little was left.

Lifting up the empty bottle and staring inside at the useless void now left behind, he shouted, "THAT GODDAMN BACKSTABBING BITCH."

Then with a fury few will ever know, and forgetting how thick they make wine bottles, he rose up and threw it against the far wall. The heavy glass container didn't break, but it did knock a hole in the sheetrock. 'Shit,' he thought, 'how much worse can things get?'

Falling back onto the bed, he grabbed Karen's pillow. 'Damn it all to hell,' he anguished as he pressed it to his nose, 'I can still smell her.'

Suddenly he was awash with guilt as he agonized, 'Why did she do it, why, why, why?'

He sobbed, "Why did our best friend… that worthless self-centered bitch, Susan, set out to seduce me?

"And why did I let her, especially right here in our house, in mine and Karen's bed?

"But worst of all, why did she have to write Karen a fucking note, confessing everything and leave it in that… that stupid mailbox?"

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