Three Little Words Pt. 01-04

"Three Little Words" Part One

by c.w. cobblestone

Those three little words from my wife destroyed me:

"We're keeping it."

My heart pumped painful shots of blood to my temples and the living room became a blurry, funhouse-mirror kaleidoscope. I lost my balance and crumbled to my knees, head in hands, palms drenched with tears while my inner ear blasted a chaotic symphony of swirling white noise, out-of-tune trumpets, screeching brakes and clanging bells.

Carmen's bitchy tone cut through the fog: "You can figure out what to tell everyone. I really don't give a shit. Jamal and I had a long talk and we're keeping the baby. Period. We'll deal with whatever comes next, but we're keeping it. If you want a divorce, fine."

I swabbed my tongue along the roof of my mouth trying to work up enough saliva to formulate words. All I could eke out was a single squeaky syllable: "Nnnoooo."

My wife's green eyes melted me. "You're pathetic, Eddie. You know that? Fucking pathetic."

"I-I... uh..."

Without another word, Carmen scooped up her purse, flipped her hair and breezed out the front door.

My tears formed two expanding dark spots on the carpet as I remained on my knees for a good 20 minutes watching the puddles grow. I finally managed to struggle to my feet, stumble to the couch and flop down, curling up in the fetal position.

I shivered and cried on the sofa for the rest of the night and well into the next day, not even getting up to use the bathroom. Luckily, it was Saturday; there was no way I could bring myself to even pick up the phone to call in sick, let alone think about going into the office.

It was getting on 2 pm when I finally rose from the couch. My legs wobbled as I made my way to the bathroom, and the simple act of pulling my dick out to pee was difficult because my hands were shaking so profusely. After relieving myself, I glanced in the mirror but averted my eyes, unable to face my reflection, fearful of what I might see.

Although I wasn't hungry, I forced myself to fix something. I managed to pop two pieces of bread into the toaster with my shaking hands although I kept dropping the butter knife, so I used my forefinger to spread the butter on the toast before sucking the digit clean. I was afraid I'd drop the juice container or milk carton and spill shit everywhere, so I turned on the faucet with my wrist and scooped water into my mouth with my cupped, trembling hands.

I then wandered to the living room and back to the couch, where I remained curled up for the rest of the weekend, crying the tears of a sad, lonely, confused cuckold simp.

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I dialed the first 6 digits of her phone number -- 647-432 -- before losing my nerve.

She'd never stayed gone so long. Five days.

After staring at my cellphone for an hour I redialed: 647-43 -- making it only 5 numbers on my second try before chickening out again.

Steeling myself, I managed to compose a text:

I'm sorry to bother you but I'm really getting worried. Please let me know that you're OK

It took 20 minutes to muster the courage to push the send button. Then I sat there for the next 2 hours watching the phone like a sap, waiting for a response that never came.

My heart guided my thumbs as I tapped out another text:

Carmen, I'm so sorry for the way I reacted, and I'm sorry if I insulted you in any way. It was just a shock, but you know I will support you in anything you do. I really am trying to give you the space you need to develop your relationship with Jamal so that we can keep our marriage together like we discussed. When you first told me about him it was a shock too, remember? I'm only human. But I promised I would be supportive, and you have to admit I have been. I understand that you want to keep the baby and I promise I will be supportive of that decision, too. It can all work out. The last thing I want is to stand in the way of your happiness, and I hope you know that I will do whatever it takes to keep this together. I'm so sorry to bother you right now but I just need to know that you're OK and then I'll leave you alone. Please just let me know that you're OK. I love you so much

I fell asleep clutching the phone to my chest.

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Over the next 2 days I sent another half-dozen unanswered texts, and finally found the balls to dial her number, only to have the calls keep going straight to voicemail. I left 3 whiny messages before deciding it was futile.

On Friday night, a full week after I'd last heard from my wife, I sent her another text:

Sorry, but since I haven't heard from you for a whole week, I'm going to call the police to report you missing

Within a minute my phone dinged:

Don't call the cops asshole I'm fine will come home when I'm ready

My heart leapt. I texted her back:

I'm so glad you're OK. I've been worried sick. See you when you get home. There'll be a cherry cheesecake waiting for you in the fridge

She didn't respond. I didn't expect her to but I stared at my phone anyway, feeling like a pathetic loser, but also relieved that my Carmen was safe.

Safe in her boyfriend's arms.

With their love child growing in her womb.

I cried myself to sleep. Again.

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"Three Little Words," Part Two

by c.w. cobblestone

Another week passed with no word from Carmen. Finally, when I returned home from work the following Friday evening I saw her BMW in the driveway. I started heaving and sobbing, lost control of the steering wheel and almost jumped the curb. My hands were shaking like crazy and I had a tough time navigating my Kia into the driveway next to her Beemer.

When I opened the front door I was smacked in the face by the smell of marijuana smoke. I stepped into an empty living room and cleared my throat.

"C-Carmen?"

"Up here."

I jogged up the stairs toward the sound of my beloved wife's voice. As I neared the top of the stairwell I saw that the bedroom door was open -- and the image of Carmen lying naked in bed with her lover nearly knocked me over. I had to grab the banister to keep from falling down a flight of stairs.

Fighting the urge to vomit, I braced myself and continued forward, repeating the mantra that had defined our marriage from the beginning:

Be supportive. Be supportive. Be supportive.

I paused in the bedroom doorway. Carmen was curled up to Jamal, her leg draped over his thigh and her head tucked under the crook of his arm as he lay back on my bed like a king. Both were smirking.

For two weeks I'd dreamt of the moment when Carmen would finally come home, but the three little words she greeted me with weren't exactly what I had in mind:

"You remember Jamal?"

I licked my lips. "Um... yeah, uh, hey, man, how you doing?"

Jamal didn't reply; he just shook his head.

My wife snapped her fingers. "We could use a couple sodas in here, Ed."

"Uh... okay."

As soon as I left the bedroom I started bawling. I made it to the foot of the stairs before falling to my knees, trembling from head to toe and sucking in breaths as if I'd just finished running a marathon. I was certain I was about to pass out when the mantra came to me:

Be supportive. Be supportive. Be supportive...

The refrain, which had been hammered into my head since childhood, gave me the strength to rise, wipe the tears from my eyes and continue my life's mission of making my wife happy. Right now, she and her boyfriend wanted sodas. When I opened the fridge, the first thing I noticed was that she hadn't touched the cheesecake I'd spent so much time preparing. There was only a little soda left in the two-liter bottle of Diet Coke, so I grabbed a pair of glasses from the cupboard, added some ice and poured each container not quite to the halfway point.

When I returned to the bedroom doorway I hesitated, feeling like an intruder in my own home. Carmen and Jamal were kicked back on the bed watching TV. It didn't escape me that he held the remote -- something that never happened when Carmen and I watched television together.

I almost knocked on the door but shook off the urge and ventured into the room.

Carmen frowned at the not-quite-half-full glasses as I set them on her nightstand. "What the hell's that?"

"Um, sorry, there was only a little bit left."

My wife snorted. "Well, then, I guess you're gonna have to drive your ass to the store and get more, ain't you?"

I sighed. "Aw, come on, honey. I just got off work. I'm exhausted."

The last word was barely out of my mouth when Jamal flung back the sheets, leapt out of bed and punched me in the eye so hard I saw fireworks. Everything went black and I slumped to the floor.

"Don't you ever talk back to my woman when she tells you something, you hear me, white boy?"

I guess I didn't answer fast enough because he kicked me in the ribs.

"You hear me? Motherfucker?"

Another kick. Through my haze of pain I heard a feminine giggle.

"Unngh, yes, yes, I hear you."

"Now, apologize."

"H-honey, I'm-- oooofff!" Another kick.

"Don't you be calling my woman, 'honey.' Apologize proper."

"I-I... Carmen, I'm very--unnngh."

Jamal corrected me: "Miss Carmen."

"Um, Miss Carmen, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

Jamal nodded. "That's better. And don't get that nasty-ass Diet Coke, either. Get Mountain Dew."

I didn't reply so he kicked me again. "What do you say when I'm talking to you, bitch?"

"Y-yes--unnnngh."

"What's that, pussy boy?"

"Y-yes, sir."

My wife sniggered. "He has to call you sir. I love it, babe."

"Yeah?" Jamal fell back onto the bed and pulled my wife close. "You like that shit, MISS Carmen? You like my idea of having us a little bitch around to do what we say? I told you he wouldn't stand up for himself. I know these pussy-boy motherfuckers. We're gonna have it made."

"Mmmm." Carmen nuzzled her nose into her lover's chest. "Whatever you want, baby. Whatever you want."

After their tender moment passed, Jamal glared down at me from his perch on my bed.

"What the hell you still laying there for, white boy? If you ain't off that floor by the count of 3 I'm gonna stomp your ass."

I scrambled to my feet, my entire body aching from the kicks and my eye throbbing from the punch.

As I started to back out of the room, Carmen sneered. "Get Diet Coke and Mountain Dew. And pick up chips and sour cream dip -- and if you don't hurry the fuck up, I'll have Jamal black your other eye."

"Y-yes, Miss Carmen."

The last thing I saw before turning to leave was their victory kiss.

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As badly as I was convulsing, I was afraid I'd wreck the car. I cried the entire way to the store, trying to focus on the road and shut off the thoughts:

Why is she doing this to me? Why is she being so cruel?

Should I call the police and report Jamal for assaulting me? Oh, no, jeez, hell no. Carmen would never speak to me again.

Why did I tell her I didn't feel like going back out to get her soda? That wasn't being very supportive, was it? It's my fault Jamal kicked my ass. I brought it on myself for being so selfish.

No, fuck that -- this isn't my fault. Put the blame where it belongs. How could she do this to me after everything I've sacrificed for her? She starts having an affair and I put up with it to keep the marriage together. She says she needs her space; I give her space. I've done without sex. Without affection. I'm a fucking ATM and maid as far as she's concerned. She tells me she's pregnant with her fucking boyfriend's baby and then stays gone for two weeks -- and then when she finally comes home, the spoiled little bitch has the fucking nerve to bring him to our bed like that? It's not bad enough she can see him whenever she wants; she has to rub my fucking face in it? How far is she going to keep pushing me? When am I going to wise up and get the fuck out of this marriage?

Wait a minute. Stop thinking like that. Be supportive of your wife, Eddie. Don't be an asshole like your father was. He left Mom while she was pregnant with you to run off with his fucking secretary. You want to be like him? You want to leave your wife? Are you kidding me? Who the hell do you think you are? You should always put your wife's needs above your own, Eddie. Be supportive. Don't be like your dad. Be supportive. Be supportive. Be supportive...

But... but... what did Jamal mean when he told Carmen about his idea of "having us a little bitch around to do what we say?" It sounds like he's planning something permanent. Fuck that. I don't want that asshole around all the time telling me what to do.

Stop. Stop right now and focus. Carmen does want him around. That's what matters. Don't be an asshole. Be supportive. Be supportive. Be supportive...

I'd calmed down a bit by the time I got to the store, although when I set the groceries on the counter, the clerk frowned and said, "hey, man, you all right?"

I sniffled. "Y-yeah, I'm just... I'm just dealing with some... some stuff at home right now."

"That eye looks pretty messed up; you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just... a bunch of stuff."

The clerk bagged my purchases. "Well, whatever it is, good luck."

"Thanks."

Yeah, right, good luck, my ass. There's no luck involved. I'm simply too fucking weak to stand up for myself.

Stop that nonsense, Eddie. Be supportive. Be supportive. Be supportive...

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When I returned home, the house still reeked of weed. I made a beeline to the kitchen and poured two full glasses of soda -- Mountain Dew for him, Diet Coke for her -- and filled a bowl with chips, and a smaller container with dip. I put it all on a tray, and as I ascended the stairs I almost felt proud of myself for taking the initiative to prepare their snack without prompting. Then, I felt like the most pathetic loser who ever walked the earth.

My wife and her lover were still relaxing on the bed; Jamal was passing my wife a blunt. She dangled it from her lips and accepted her glass of soda. I set the chips on the bed next to her then shuffled to the other side of the bed and handed Jamal his drink, feeling like a waiter.

Carmen toked the blunt and with her lungs still full, said, "Listen Ed..." She took another toke and blew smoke at me. "I hate to break it to you, but you're going back out again. I want McDonald's. Quarter Pounder with Cheese and fries."

My shoulders slumped. "Okay, Car... er, Miss Carmen."

I turned to Jamal. "Um, do you want me to pick you up anything... uh, sir?"

"Yeah, bitch, Big Mac and fries."

"Y-yes, sir."

Carmen passed the blunt to her boyfriend and sneered at me. "Oh, and tomorrow you're gonna have to go to the U-Haul place and rent a truck."

"But... uh, okay, Miss Carmen. But... uh, what for?"

My wife snuggled closer to her lover and delivered a crushing blow in the form of three little words:

"Jamal's moving in."

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"Three Little Words" Part Three

by c.w. cobblestone

The whistle blew as the train rounded the bend with a vengeance. I inched the Kia closer to the railroad tracks before stepping on the brake pedal. My other foot found the accelerator. The car lurched forward when I revved the engine with the brakes still pressed down. Closing my eyes, I repeated the three little words that made up my new mantra:

End the pain. End the pain. End the pain.

As the train rumbled closer, I knew what I had to do to escape my hell.

Lift your foot off the brake, Eddie. Drive onto the tracks, Eddie. Kiss the train; end the pain. Kiss the train; end the pain. Ready... set...

No.

I couldn't.

The clatter of the passing boxcars was drowned out by the voice screaming in my head:

Coward! Coward! Coward! Coward! You fucking lousy coward!

I flinched when the driver behind me honked his horn. I opened my eyes. The train was gone. The barrier had lifted. Green light. Time to move forward.

Back to hell.

The first ring of Hades in this case turned out to be the Piggly Wiggly on Main Street which rented out U-Hauls. I nosed the Kia into the parking lot and sat there and cried for 20 minutes before pulling myself together. As I trudged to the U-Haul counter at the rear of the store I felt like a man dipped in shit.

The girl behind the register popped her gum. "Can I help you?"

Yeah, I'd like to rent a truck so I can move my wife's boyfriend's shit into our home.

"Um... I guess the 17-footer."

"You want to rent the 17-foot truck, sir?"

"Um, yeah. Yes."

"Moving out of state?"

"Um, no. No. Just... helping a... a... friend... move... into..."

I started sobbing again.

"Sir, are you okay?"

"I, uh, thank you, but, no, I'm... I'm... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Just the 17-footer, thank you. Sorry."

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I was fine driving the truck the first couple miles but as I approached Jamal's apartment building my hands started shaking again, and I had such a tough time gripping the steering wheel I had to pull over and calm down.

Hang in there, Eddie. Be supportive. This is what Carmen wants. Be supportive. Be supportive. Be supportive...

After finding a parking spot I dug Jamal's keys from my pocket and entered the building's lobby, noting with a sigh that the elevator was out of commission. I climbed the stairs to the 3rd floor and found unit 312. The thump of hip-hop bass and the scent of weed were noticeable from down the hall.

I wasn't sure whether to let myself in, so I knocked to be safe. The music stopped.

"Who is it?"

"Um... it's Eddie."

"Didn't I give you a key, white boy?"

I heard laughter as I slipped the key into the slot and opened the door. Jamal sat in the living room with two other guys, one of whom toked a blunt.

"This is my new pussy boy I was telling you about," Jamal said to his companions. I gulped and looked at my shoes, fighting the urge to pee as I stood before the three smirking men.

"Damn, Jamal, you fucked his eye up. Look at that shit."

"Told you. The little bitch got lippy with my lady and I had to check his ass. Didn't I, bitch?"

"Um... uh, yes, sir."

The two strangers scoffed.

One of the men leered at me. "You know, you got a fine-ass wife. She comes up to the club all the time shaking that ass. How you let Jamal take her off you like that?"

"I-I don't know... she... I just want her to be happy."

"She's happy getting that black dick. What's wrong, you don't fuck her with that little white thing you got?"

Jamal scoffed. "Oh, hell no. I told ol' girl to cut him off a long time ago, didn't I, pussy boy? When's the last time you put that little faggot dick anywhere near my woman?"

"I-uh... sir, it's been more than a year, sir."

"Damn skippy." Jamal was in his glory putting me down in front of his buddies.

I bit my lip to keep from crying. The room started spinning and I felt sick to my stomach.

Jamal took the blunt from his friend, toked it and blew smoke in my direction. "So you ready to start moving my shit into my new crib, pussy boy?"

"Y-yes, sir."

He frowned.

"Where's the boxes?"

"Um... boxes, sir?"

"Yeah, the damn boxes to pack my shit, fuck face. What, did you think I was gonna pack everything for you?"

"I-I, uh, no... I'm sorry, sir."

"Sorry, my ass. Get your ass down to the Home Depot and pick up some of them good boxes."

"Um, yes, sir. Uh, about how many I should get, sir?"

"I don't know. You're a smart white boy; you'll figure it out."

"Y-yes, sir," I said as Jamal's friends cracked up.

I hightailed it out of there amid the sound of taunts and laughter. As soon as I hit the corridor I dropped to my knees and started bawling. An elderly man who was carrying a bag of groceries into his apartment across the hall turned toward me and frowned.