Spoken in Anger

Wake up. Shower. Eat a breakfast bar. Take the subway to the office. Work. Eat lunch by myself. Work some more. And here's where the decision tree starts.

I'm a programmer. A decent one; I'd be a senior developer by now, if... well, if I could give a fuck. But I was good enough to not get fired, which was what mattered now.

Anyways, programmer. That's why "decision tree." "If Day In ['Tuesday','Wednesday'] Then Subway(Home)." Except life is never exactly that easy. Never that simple. The decision tree started before that, branched out in the morning, because if it was a Saturday or Sunday, I'd have slept in as late as my body would have let me, then vegged out playing videogames all day. And then there are handlers for special days: birthdays, anniversaries, holidays.

Valentine's Day.

Two years ago, everything was different, all my decision branches were different. A year ago, everything changed. I'd give anything to go back and make different decisions, to have flipped a few bits and sent my life on a different path. I'd say I regret what I did, but regrets are for people who can hope for forgiveness. For the rest of us, we just push on and through, putting the damage we've caused behind us as best we can.

My decision tree this Valentine's Day required special handling. Normally on a Tuesday, I'd go home and either drink, toke, or game my way to sleep. But tonight, there was a meeting of my support group, the one that normally only occurred on the Thursday branch of the tree. Valentine's Day was special, though. The folks that ran it knew that some of us would need the extra support today.

There weren't many people in the auditorium, just a handful of us in folding chairs in a circle. I was glad of some of the absences; Darius wasn't there, and hadn't been to any of the meetings in weeks. I smiled a little; I hoped he'd escaped the orbit of his pain, at least enough to start navigating to a new life. Margaret wasn't either, but I think she was just sick. She'd sounded terrible when she spoke last week. Hopefully she'd feel better soon. She was a real sweetheart.

And, of course, the bulk of the other usual attendees weren't here, either. They were using the group for the reason intended, to get better. Our group wasn't like AA; you were expected to leave someday. If you didn't, either the group wasn't working for you or you weren't working with the group. I was the latter; I had never spoken, other than to give my name, in the three months I'd been coming.

But the other four? Well, three were what I thought of as old timers. They each had their reasons to be here, beyond what brought us all to the group initially. Beyond the loss of our spouses at a young age. We were all, in theory, here to talk with other folks that could understand, that could empathize. My therapist suggested I come, and I did. But I knew I wasn't working with the group the way I should if I was going to leave. I was here to wallow.

Mary was here for that, too. But her wallowing wasn't the quiet kind; instead, she shared every few weeks, talked about what she'd done. Her husband was a clinically depressed man, and she couldn't manage it anymore. He had stopped managing himself, had lost his therapist and wouldn't go to a new one, wouldn't go to the ones she found for him. Started to lash out in his depression.

She couldn't get through to him, couldn't get him to get help, and she eventually fell in love with a coworker she had confided in. She left her husband, Sam, alone. She hadn't intended to; she had called his sister, but something happened and the sister didn't get there in the ten minutes she had promised. Didn't get there at all. He threw himself off of their apartment balcony.

I hated Mary. Not for what she had done, not specifically. For what I had done. For reminding me too much of myself. There was an uncanny valley between us, and her grief and pain looked like mine just enough that I recognized it and just different enough that it made me angry to look across it at her.

Ray had been here longest, and he was the oldest; technically past the age limit, but who was going to kick him out? He wallowed, too, but he tried to think of it as leadership, of giving back to the group what he'd gotten from it. His wife had died in a drunk driving incident. She had gotten just a little too lit and left a party that way, taking her car keys with her. The group, I'm pretty sure, had become his life, even as it prevented him from making a new one. He was like one of those guys that went to every home game shirtless and painted in the team colors; his only friends were here, and we weren't really his friends.

Gina was a lot like Darius, and they had been pretty close; she clearly missed her buddy. Their spouses both died from cancer. I think she was still here because, unlike Darius' wife, Gina's husband had lasted a long time, three years. He had gone into remission and then relapse, followed by a slow decline that chemo and radiation couldn't stop. There's a special pain in losing a loved one quickly, but there's also a special pain in losing them slowly, especially when you think they've made it past the danger.

The fourth, Ed, was one of the new guys. A really new guy, only here for a couple of weeks. He was still early in the process, just trying to figure out how to pick up the pieces and move on. His wife's death was simplest, and for that reason, somehow saddest to me: an aneurysm, a simple weakness in a blood vessel cutting short both a life and a love.

And that left me, Todd. My wife had died, too. The hows and whys? Well, that's a--

"Todd, do you want to share tonight?" Ray's earnest voice set my teeth on edge. It was the same voice a high school guidance counselor uses when they tell you that maybe if you'd just try to fit in, things would be better.

I'd zoned out when Mary had been sharing. I do remember that she said she'd met someone new. Even in my disdain, I could find a little happiness for her; hopefully she wouldn't fuck it up. But then it turned into another recounting of her husband's death and her role in it, only this time the spin was about how and when to talk about it with the new guy. That was like the blind leading the blind, and I had no interest in listening to a bunch of birds with broken wings give tips on how to fly.

I shook my head, and Ray, with his usual thin smile when I did that, started to turn to the next possible participant. But then, surprising myself, I said, "Yes. Yes, I want to share."

The old timers shared a glance among themselves; these meetings had a flow to them, and that flow didn't include me speaking. Even Ed seemed to catch that something strange was happening. But it had been a year, exactly a year, since Sandra's death, and three months I'd been coming here. There were only four people in the room; if I wasn't going to do it on this night of all nights, with this few people judging me, when was I going to do it?

"Um, I'm Todd. You know me. It's been... it's been a year since Sandra died. Exactly a year, since... " I looked at the floor, trying to escape the eyes on me. "Since I killed her." There was a gasp; Gina, I thought. The sound of cloth rustling as people shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.

Ray spoke. "Todd, perhaps-- "

Ignoring him, I continued. I was committed; I'd always been committed when it came to Sandy. "We married too young. I loved her, and she loved me, from sophomore year in high school on. We weren't like a lot of high school couples, the ones that broke up and got back together over and over. It was us, just us, all the way through high school. We got engaged the week we graduated high school, got married the week we graduated college.

"My folks, her folks, our friends, they all tried to tell us we got married too young. But that... well, you know how kids are. People telling them they're making a mistake just convinces them that they're star crossed lovers being torn apart by... whatever."

The floor was that kind of ugly speckled, mostly green linoleum that you only get in old auditoriums. The kind meant to hide vomit, or blood, or urine, until some guy with a mop and bucket can get there. "We were in love, though. Really in love. It wasn't just youthful arrogance or lust. I would have spent the rest of my life with her, happily with her. We made it five years that way, just happy as could be. Or I was, at least. I thought she was, too.

"We were starting to talk about kids. Really talk about it, I mean. She was hesitant; we were so young, me twenty six and her twenty five. I pushed on it a little bit, but she pushed back hard, and I let it lie. She was right. We were young. It could wait a few more years, and I wanted her to be happy."

Sitting back in my chair, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I put one in my mouth and brought the lighter up when Ray, voice pitched up just a bit and indignant, said "You can't smoke in--" Mary hissed at him. I looked around and realized I was kind of being a dick. But then Gina, whose husband passed from lung cancer, nodded to me, and I decided I'd been given a majority vote.

I took a puff and blew it away from the group, specifically away from Ray. He still coughed pointedly. "Things changed after that. Slowly at first; there was still love there, a lot of it. But she decided to focus on her career. 'So we could get ready for having kids,' she said. Longer hours. Weekends sometimes. Travel. I was young, dumb, and in love. I didn't think anything of it, because she was still just as affectionate when she was home. Even moreso."

A smoke ring went towards the ceiling, breaking apart as it tried to fly too high. "I had a doctor's appointment one morning and decided I'd go by her work to surprise her. Take her out to lunch. Even if she couldn't go, she'd be happy to see me, right? Especially if I brought flowers."

Mary shifted in her chair. She knew from hard won experience where this was going. "I got there just before lunch, but she was already heading out the door with another guy, someone I didn't recognize. Our age, maybe a little older. They were getting into his car as I drove up. He was helping her into it, and his hands were not where they should have been.

"I probably would have gotten out and confronted them, but I'd just have been chasing a car on foot and shouting at it like a crazy person, so I followed them in my car instead. They drove to an hourly motel. I took pictures of them going in, and his hand placement didn't get any better. I took pictures of them coming out; her hair was a bit messed up, but her makeup was perfect."

Ed started to speak, with that sympathetic look I'd seen hundreds of times on dozens of faces in this room, but I waved him off. I doubted he'd be so sympathetic when I was done. "I called in sick the rest of the day. I felt like I'd died. Like I wanted to murder her." Lots of discomfort from the assembly then. You tell a group of grieving spouses that you wish you'd murdered yours and see what happens. "I tried to decide if I could somehow forgive her. Like, if I confronted her and she threw herself at my feet and begged, if I could overlook it. But I couldn't. I was absolutely sure of that." I laughed mirthlessly as I shook my head. "So sure."

The room was tense and quiet. No one wanted to move or speak; not even me. But I was committed. "I simmered with rage that afternoon. I went through every stage of grief in a couple of hours and came out the other side ready to do as much harm to her as I could." I saw their faces, thought about how they were squaring what I'd just said with what I'd said about murdering her. My hand went out, palm upward, the ash from my cigarette falling to the floor. "No, not like that. I wanted to... she'd destroyed our marriage. I was going to do that to her in spades."

They looked like a tribunal. Ray was irritated, Gina sad, Mary understanding, Ed horrified. Their judgments didn't matter; I knew I was guilty anyways. "It was coming up on Valentine's Day. Sandy's favorite. 'I know it's commercial, but I still love it. It's about love, and that's something I'll always have with you!'" I wasn't trying to make a mockery of her voice, but that's how it came out. "I decided to hold off on the confrontation until then. She'd ruined something I loved, and I was going to ruin our marriage and her favorite holiday in one fell swoop. If that sounds cruel..." I shrugged. "It was. Intentionally so."

My cigarette was almost finished, so I took one last drag, stubbed it out on my heel, and put the butt in my pocket. There was already ash on the floor, and I didn't need Ray bitching about me littering even more. But I lit another one up anyways. Fuck his sanctimonious ass.

"When she got home, I pretended to be sick; I wasn't that good of an actor, to just pretend everything was normal. But I made sure that she saw the roses that I'd gotten her, put them in a nice big vase so she'd see them when she came in. Told her I'd tried to surprise her at lunch, but must have just missed her. Sandy went pale, but I'll give her this: she recovered real quick.

"I spent the next week and a half preparing. Getting the reservations squared away, leaving little love notes for her to ramp up the surprise, small gifts intended to hint at a larger one. She was so happy; I always tried to make Valentine's Day special for her, but this was me going the extra mile." I chuckled. "Yeah, the extra mile. Way further than I should have taken things."

Ray jumped in, "Todd, this feels like something you should be talking out with your therapist."

I laughed. "Why do you think I'm here, Ray? I was supposed to share all of this with my 'peers.'" I swept my hand across the circle of faces. "See that I'm not alone in my pain, that no matter what I've done..." I shook my head. "Bullshit. Whatever." My voice growled, "Don't interrupt again," and he sat back in his chair, arms crossed, sulking at the loss of his imagined power.

"The night before, I told her to wear her best: favorite dress, jewelry, go get her hair done, manicure, everything. Told her we were going to make a whole weekend of it, with a big surprise in store to show how much she meant to me. She was over the moon.

"And that night, when we were ready to go out, she looked... beautiful. Like..." I laughed, melancholic. "Not like an angel, not dressed like that. But the woman of my dreams. A fantasy made flesh. There was a part of me that wanted to forget everything. To give her what I'd promised. But then I remembered her coming out of the hotel room, how comfortable she was with his attentions. So I smiled a devilish little smile, and we were on our way.

"I had done some horse trading and got reservations to an exclusive new restaurant. A window table, ostensibly because she loved to people watch. In reality, it was because I wanted people to watch her. She was beautiful, and young, and sexy, and not a few of the male patrons got glares from their dates as we went to our table and sat.

"We ordered our drinks and held hands. Sandy was beaming. Just so full of joy." I stopped and took another drag, wishing I had a drink instead. "I had brought a satchel with me. I'd told her it was part of her surprise. She was almost vibrating with anticipation as I reached in and pulled out a manila envelope. On any other night, at any other time, she would have realized immediately what it was; I heard a gasp to my left as someone else did.

"As she feverishly opened her present, I pulled out my phone and queued up the picture of her coming out of the motel. The look on her face... it should have crushed me. Should have told me that I needed to stop, that this was too much. But the pain, the confusion: that was what I was there for. My pound of flesh.

"And then, when I said, 'I know,' and showed her the picture? I reveled in the pain then, the way her tears ruined her perfect makeup, her hand going over her mouth. I savored every detail, wanting to remember it forever. She could see it on my face then, the anger and the glee at her pain." Another drag from a shaking cigarette. "Stupid. So stupid."

Mary was holding her breath. Gina had grabbed her hand and was squeezing it. Ed was on the edge of his seat, while Ray affected disinterest, even as I could see his breathing was shallow with fear. "She panicked. I didn't expect it, but I welcomed it as it happened. Sandy leapt to her feet. Started to run. 'Ran in a blind panic.' I'd heard it, but never seen it. She bolted away from the table as I laughed. Laughed at the pain of this woman that I was supposed to cherish."

My head hung low, weighted down by my guilt and their horrified, expectant expressions. I couldn't look at them, didn't want to know how they'd look at me. "She pushed her way past the crowd in the waiting area, shoved out the door and ran. Ran..." My voice cracked. "Ran into the street. It was..." The tears fell.

"He couldn't stop, the car couldn't stop. I was on my feet, shouting as it happened. All thoughts of revenge and anger were gone. She fell. It was such a little hit, not like you see in the movies. The bumper hit her, and she fell. Fell and... and... and her head... it bounced off the asphalt. She didn't move."

I'd lost all control of my voice, of its volume and timbre. It was raw with pain and longing, longing for something I could never have back. "I ran out, screaming and crying. In a panic like her, but one that could still see. I saw what I'd done, and I ran to her, through the crowd of onlookers. Fell to my knees beside her. She... she was gone. An empty stare, a little splash of blood on the pavement, and that was it. The love of my life was gone, and she'd never come back to me."

"Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ." Ed's voice, somehow horrified and flat at the same time. Beneath it, I could hear soft weeping, a woman's cries.

"'An accident.' That's what it was ruled; that's how the cops wrote it up, and no one even glanced twice at it. No one could have known she'd do it. But I knew. I knew, and my friends knew, and her family knew: I'd murdered their daughter. I never told them why; I couldn't. Couldn't do that to her. I'd murdered her once, I couldn't do it a second time."

Ray, finally speaking in a voice that didn't set my teeth on edge, said, "Did... did you ever find out...?" A question without a question. Timid as ever.

I sat back up in the chair, laughing. Mary. It was Mary that was crying. Gina was hugging her, trying to keep her together. "That's your question, Ray? Not 'how are you feeling now?' 'Thank you for sharing that with the group?' Did you forget..." I shook my head. Whatever, I'd be curious, too. "Yeah. The bastard actually showed up to the funeral. One of her coworkers. He didn't know that I knew. I cornered him and..." I swallowed. "That was my fault, too. The reason she cheated, I mean. Sort of. Not really, but..." I shook my head again.

"She had freaked out when I'd pushed her about having kids. Saw her life going by without her in it, with her never being 'her.' Just my girlfriend, and then my wife, and then a mother. That's why she threw herself into her work, so she could carve out a little niche for 'her.' And then... and then he seduced her. He was single and handsome, she was in a bad place, they were working closely together for long hours. It was easy.

"They'd had sex a few times. The time I caught them was supposed to be the last time, according to him. He could have been lying to spare my feelings, but... but I think he knew that if he wanted to spare my feelings, he'd have made her out to be unrepentant instead. He didn't know if she was going to confess or not; he didn't think she knew, either. He's the only one that ever heard the whole truth of why she died, of why I was divorcing her."