Short Story: Acid Rain

Short Story: Acid Rain

The shutters were banging against the house. Lenny tucks himself tighter into the blanket. The fire went out hours ago but he doesn’t have any more fire-wood left in the house to re-light it. He was damned if he would go outside to get more in this weather. The night looked like the storm of the century had descended on him.

Why did he do it? He asked himself again. Why didn’t he just let things be? He always had to react, just couldn’t leave well alone. Well now he was paying for it. He squirmed uncomfortably under the blanket at the memory of it. A sudden blast of wind howls down the chimney, bringing with it fine speckles of the heavy rain. He burrows down deeper on the settee, but his hand is hurting now with the movement.

He gently touches his bandaged hand. It would have been better if it has been his left rather than his right hand. At least then he could write. He could probably scribble something almost legible if he took the time but would he even be able to post it? The town was miles away and he had no car. And whom would he write to now? He had no one left and nothing but the clothes he lay in, the remnants of food in the kitchen and a bottle of scotch.

It was no use, he wasn’t going to get any sleep. He got up off the settee, wrapping the blanket around him and walked to the window. The panes of glass were struggling hard to hold back the lashing rain and the howling wind. There had been no let up for six hours. They said that it was likely to last for at least three days. By then the house would have started to float. Maybe it would float out of this mess and he could lose himself forever.

The sudden noise startled him. Lenny ducked, protecting his head with his hands and cursed as a loud thud shook the room. He looked across to the end window to see a bird shake itself down and fly off. Another heron. He felt like dong the same, knocking his head against something. So far none of the windows had broken, but there was plenty of cracks in the glass. He went over to the bureau and got out the tape to put over the glass where the heron had hit it. Surveying the windows all taped up he couldn’t help but compare them to windows back in the war. He was having his own private war in his head right now. For good measure he taped over the larger parts of the window in preparation for more birds hitting the glass.

There was a fresh smear of blood on the glass from the bird. It had made a shape of a distorted face, and he traced the shape with his finger. He thought of Florence’s bloodied face, all bloated up with the bruising. The rain will wash blood off the window, but Florence’s face will not heal. He felt his hand again and flinched. He had to stop thinking of it, so he grabbed the bottle of scotch and took a swig. It was funny how you think you know someone but who ever really do know even themselves? He didn’t know what he was capable of until last week. He sat back down and rubbed his aching eyebrows. In the space of one week he went from respected doctor to outcast.

He had been a loving husband, always there for her, gave her what she wanted. Their life wasn’t exciting but it was steady. He thought that she would be happy with that. There was always a home to come back to when she finished one of her trips. Trips! Huh that’s a laugh. How come he didn’t realise that interior designers didn’t need to take so many trips a year? Of course he was never invited to go with her and now he knew why. But his devotion blinded him.

The telephone rings but he ignores it. Lenny shuts the door so he can’t hear it so clearly. Damn reporters. Damn police investigators. Why didn’t they all leave him alone? He had told them everything. If they didn’t believe him then that was their look out. He just wanted to be left alone. He might of course end up in jail. He was out on bail after all. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad place to be. At least he could hide from the world easier that way. Stay cooped up with his shame.

Early in the marriage things were perfect. They were both busy people so they were always preoccupied with their work, but that didn’t stop him from spoiling her. Things only started to go wrong after about two years. Yes, it must have been that time that they had money worries. They had moved to a house too expensive for them really, but Florence was so in love with it and he wanted to please her. But the money worries were not good. The first time they fought it had shocked both Lenny and Florence when it turned violent. There had been no violence in their relationship before that. They cried all night then and promised that it would not happen again. But it did, on numerous occasions.

When Florence changed jobs a year later Lenny felt things had improved. It may have been the fact that being away more meant they couldn’t argue, but the extra money certainly took the pressure off them. But that didn’t last and her being away so much caused the tension to rise again, and eventually the frustration between them spilled over. People had already started talking by then, noticing the bruises. Lenny would make excuses, say that they were doing up the house and were clumsy. Of course no one believed him, such a lame story. Lenny found his shame made him dread visiting patients, especially the ones where the injuries seemed to be caused by domestic violence. He could barely keep eye contact with his patient’s in those cases. They all seemed to dare him to challenge them as he dressed their wounds.

Lenny went into the kitchen to make a coffee. He was tired of thinking, tired of feeling tired, tired of the damned rain and wind. The kitchen was so cold that the milk could stay out of the fridge and still be too cold. He wished he had brought a heavier coat with him, but he had left in such a hurry. He’d go upstairs and see if there were any more blankets left. He hadn’t been upstairs since he arrived. He limited himself to the living room, kitchen and downstairs bathroom. There were too many memories, too much of Florence upstairs and in the other rooms. He had taken down any memory of her in the rooms he was using. They used to love this cottage by the sea. They would spend at least four weeks of the year at the cottage. She was always a compulsive buyer.

He stirred his coffee and went to the bottom of the stairs. He could see the old chair on the landing, the one he had to mend after it was broken in one of their violent fights. He smoothed his hand again absent-mindedly. There was a photo of Florence and him smiling on the landing table. Her beautiful unblemished face. How long ago was that? Must have been in the very early days. He went across the landing and into the spare room. He found a couple of blankets in the top of the wardrobe and pulled them down. He could smell Florence on them and he found himself spontaneously crying.

He sat on the bed and held the blanket to his face, taking in the smell. It had taken him three months to approach Florence about the increasing time she spent away from home. He kept telling himself to cool it, she was happy most of the time when she was home wasn’t she? But the frustration had built up so he had challenged her about it. But she always had an excuse. Less people more work, you know how it is. If I don’t do it someone else will get the work, and then we’ll lose the house. But he couldn’t let it go. But when he pushed too far one day it had ended in a physical fight again so he stopped pushing. He backed off for a while, but then during one trip she hadn’t called him for four days, and when he called her work they said she was on her holidays. So he finally looked through some of her things and it was then he found out she had a property in Paris. He was shocked. Their bank accounts didn’t have any out goings for a property he didn’t know about. He’d gotten the first flight to Paris that afternoon. He had no idea what he would find.

His heart was in his mouth when he approached the door to the apartment. The door was slightly open so he pushed it wider, letting it slowly creak his presence. The memory of it made him feel his hand again, and he touched the big gash that would probably leave a scar. It had only taken a split second to notice the figure coming towards him as he lifted his hand in self- defence and the knife had sliced through it. Florence was hysterical but his instinct kicked in and he quickly took the knife from her. She was crying inconsolably. Lenny started shouting at her, asking her what the hell was going on. It took a while to notice her face all bruised and bloodied and it stopped him in his tracks. Where the hell did she get that from?

She pointed to the window. Lenny hadn’t notice the man standing there by the large windows, hands bloodied. He looked angry and Lenny started to shout at him too. Did he do this? To his wife, Lenny’s wife? The man said it was his bloody wife, not Lenny’s. Florence started screaming again and rushed towards the man by the window. Lenny’s head was spinning. Why did the man say that? The two figures tussled and screamed at each other but Lenny ignored them, lost in a swirl of confusion, he had nothing left and sat on the bed deflated. The sounds of screaming dissolved into a distant sound as Lenny went into shock. He was hardly aware of the figures falling out of the open window. He could hear Florence calling his name but she was already dead. She was begging him but he just looked over at her, defeated, as she lost her grip and fell.

When the police arrived it took them one week of waiting for Lenny to finish his spell in hospital before they could piece together the information. He had lost quite a lot of blood from the gash in his hand. He wished he had died, but instead he was living a nightmare. Why did he have to go snooping and look for Florence? He was happy enough wasn’t he, the way things were? Ok she was away a lot. Ok she had those outbursts that scared him, made him ashamed to walk around with a bruised face. But he was content, respected. She just needed anger management that’s all. They could have moved to another town, started again. If only he had been stronger, then she may not have beat him, or cheated, and may not have had a second life with another man. Lenny blamed himself. That’s why he never contradicted the official view that he was a jealous lover and had attacked her before she accidentally fell to her death with her loving husband.