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  DEVIL YOU KNOW

  Copyright © 2015 Max Henry

  Published by Max Henry

  All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Max Henry is in no way affiliated with any brands, songs, musicians, or artists mentioned in this book.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: February 2015, by Max Henry

  Edited by: Lauren McKellar

  Cover Design: Louisa of LM Creations

  Cover Image: Michael Meadows of Michael Meadows Studios

  Cover Model: Lance Jones

  Formatting by: Max Effect

  BEING ALONE, while not alone, is such a curious thing. How can one who is surrounded by many, still feel the hollow ache of a person who has nobody to confide in, nobody to trust?

  Nobody to love.

  Human beings in general are companion-based animals. We long, and yearn for that soul mate since the day we are born—it’s only that we don’t fully understand the emotion until puberty has taken hold, and love is no longer what we feel for a cherished toy, but rather a self-inflicted torture we endure in the name of connecting with somebody who makes us feel magical. A week of madness, an hour of pain, all for a few simple minutes of ecstasy.

  So many of us would give that—sell our soul to the devil—and never look back. The euphoria we get from a simple touch, a look, a whispered word can undo the greatest of heartache. Usually heartache we endure in the pursuit of such a fabled moment.

  It’s only when the heartache follows the treasured moment that we begin to question this whole ‘love’ thing. Only then will endless hours be lost standing in the shower, questioning everything we thought we knew. The devil on our shoulder starts the guessing game, and we delve too far into every decision we make. Should I? Would I? Could I?

  A form of insanity takes hold, and we lose ourselves to the madness before we recognize the signs. By the time we realize what a muddled mess our head is in, it’s too late; we’ve crossed the road, and taken a wrong turn long ago.

  The cycle begins.

  A whispered word, a gentle touch, a stolen glance, and we’re brought from the brink of self-destruction, back to that cloudless sky with nothing but sunshine on the horizon. We live in that euphoric state, gladly burying the pain of not so long ago, to bask in the warmth of love once again.

  All until that trust is shaken.

  Until the feeling is no longer reciprocated.

  Until all we see in that once faithful companion, is a stranger.

  Or in my case . . . the enemy.

  BEING A woman can be such a contradiction. We’re told to be independent, yet we’re shepherded toward a preconceived ideal of happiness. We’re encouraged to ‘find the one’, ‘settle down’ and ‘raise a family.’ Women who break that norm are spoken about in hushed whispers behind soft, manicured hands of ladies at the school gates.

  Society portrays a ‘woman’ as a loving, nurturing soul. Yet the harsh reality is they can often be more vindictive, more manipulating, and more conniving than men.

  And men know this.

  That is why some of them choose to place their ‘woman’ in the box she belongs in from day one.

  See, I don’t think my husband was raised to be an arrogant, chauvinistic animal. I don’t think his parents neglected him, or that other kids bullied him until he became what he is out of self-preservation.

  No.

  I know for a fact he was born this way.

  Picture a scene from a horror movie; the doctor wipes a shaky hand across his brow, and pulls a screaming, red-faced baby from between the legs of a woman who is staring at the white light above.

  Yeah, that was the day my husband was born.

  I’m sure Satan smoked a cigar to celebrate.

  So why did I marry him, you say? Fucked if I know. Once upon a time I was naive, stupid, young, the list goes on . . . Once upon a time he was charming, thoughtful, and blow me down—he actually laughed.

  We were young then.

  Now? We’re . . . married.

  He’s what he thinks every man should be: controlling, demanding, and always right.

  I’m what keeps me alive: quiet, dutiful, and non-objectionable.

  He asks—I do.

  It’s a simple arrangement. And one that works for us.

  I could dream of another life; one where I’m happily watering the roses while my children play. My darling husband pulls our family sedan into the driveway, and produces a random gift for ‘his lovely wife’. I smile, he laughs, we hold each other, and life is perfect.

  But what good would that do?

  Remind me of what a shit-hole I’m stuck in, and make my already tedious days more miserable? It’s easier to compartmentalize and forget. It’s better not to cry.

  To cry is to show weakness, and this liar gets off on my weakness.

  Everyone I’ve met, who could brandish a few respectable letters after their name, have said ‘speak up’, or ‘search for help’. It sounds so damn easy in theory, but the thing I can’t fathom is, how the hell do I do that when nobody cares to listen? My so-called colleagues at work pass me by on a daily basis like I’m no more than an annoying health and safety poster; everyone knows it’s there, but they gave up paying attention long ago.

  Neighbors? Hell, if cars didn’t move from their driveway, I’d honestly believe we had none. I don’t see them, I don’t hear them, and I sure as shit don’t know their names.

  So whom do I talk to?

  My family? Damn, they cut their ties and left me a long time ago. There’s something easier about abandoning flesh and blood than explaining to friends why ‘Jane can’t make it again.’ After a while, people stop asking, and ultimately, stop caring.

  Out of sight—out of mind.

  The police, you say?

  Tried that, and all I got in response was an Oscar-worthy performance from my husband, and a beating to remind me of my ‘place in this house’ once the kind officer had left our property.

  You see, my husband is one of the clever ones—most of the time he doesn’t leave marks. The majority of his abuse is verbal. And that shit cuts worse than any knife I’ve ever had penetrate my skin. It’s psychological. He’s a Class A mind-fucker.

  Which brings me to today—the day things change.

  Today, he pushed too far. And today, I met a neighbor.

  You know what? I actually have a neighbor.

  • • • • •

  “JANE, WHERE the fuck is my grey shirt?”

  Next to me in the laundry—dirty. “I’m not sure. Have you checked the wardrobe?”

  “Where the fuck do you think I’d look first? In the garage?”

  A cool shudder ripples down my spine, despite the muggy, early autumn air. “I’m sorry, baby. Let me find your shirt for you.” I place the iron aside, and switch it off.

  “Hurry the fuck up about it, woman. I should have been with the boys ten minutes ag
o.”

  I can feel how vacant my stare is; my eyeballs literally hurt with the strain I place on them to keep the tears at bay. But it’s how I cope. It’s how I push away his rage which radiates through the house like a damn cold draught. He thinks after all these years I still believe he goes out with ‘the boys’. Truth is, the bastard has a mistress he meets up with every Friday.

  I’ve seen her.

  The woman’s been in our house, in our bed, touched my clothes.

  Deandra.

  I wonder if she knows what he gets up to at home. Has he raised his hand at her? Or does he reserve all of his ‘true charm’ for me?

  My hands wind around the tie I’ve ironed. I’ve placed so many damn stress creases in the thing I toss it back in the ‘to-do’ pile before I turn and pick up the grey shirt. Lifting the fabric to my nose, I check the smell.

  Hyacinth.

  Fucking Deandra.

  Fucking me.

  Why I’m so wound up about my abusive husband’s mistress is beyond me, but I sure as hell know I need my head read for it. Stockholm syndrome? No. That would insinuate that I still love the guy.

  That ship sailed a long time ago.

  I stopped loving Dylan about the same time my mother stopped calling the house. Apparently, I was never there to talk. Strange, considering I’ve never been one to go out on a weeknight. But hey, that Wednesday night card game with ‘the ladies from tennis’ must have escaped my memory—right after Dylan smacked my head into the bench-top for making gravy that wasn’t thick enough.

  His cursing echoes from the kitchen, and safe in the knowledge he’s busy getting himself pre-drunk before he scores a hole-in-one with ‘the boys’, I scoot into our room and freshen the shirt up with a squirt of odor eliminator, and a touch of aftershave. His footfalls pound up the hallway right on cue, and I pull the most impressive lie to date as he rounds the bedroom door—a beer in his large hand.

  “Here it is, baby. I had it behind the black shirt. No wonder you couldn’t see it. My mistake.”

  I pass it off to him, and he gives it the once-over before dropping it on the foot of the bed, and slapping me clean across the cheek with his free hand.

  My head reels to the side, but I’ll take a smack in the face for misplacing a shirt in his color-coded wardrobe any day over what he’d do if he realized I hadn’t washed it.

  “After all these years, Jane, you’d think you’d get it fucking right by now. I’m pretty sure you’ve only kept your job because you’re fucking the boss.”

  Statuesque. That’s how people would describe the way I stand at that moment. Showing no emotion; showing no fear. Blank is safe. Blank doesn’t raise suspicion. Blank doesn’t get me in trouble.

  He shrugs the shirt on over his aptly named wife-beater, and picks the beer up from where he placed it on the nightstand. A moisture ring remains, and he scowls at it before snapping his fingers at me.

  “Sort that out before it leaves a mark, would you?”

  I’m down the hall and back with a cloth in hand before he can draw his next breath. Last time I let his beer mark our furniture he suffocated me until I passed out—twice. Life may be hell, but I don’t fancy reliving that near-death experience again.

  Strangely enough, I want to live.

  The front door slams, and I pause in my mad wiping long enough to discern the sound of his engine as it tears out the drive and down the street. Air seems lighter around me, and my shoulders don’t ache as much. I stare at that cloth in my hand. My nostrils flare, and I suppress the urge to scream at what that green, floral pattern represents.

  Small clicks sound behind me, and alone at last, I do what I’ve wanted to since he got home from work; I fall to my knees, relieved. There’s no need to keep up my false bravado now that he’s gone.

  “Hey, buddy.” I open my arms wide, and welcome my black Labrador into my hold. Even Rocco knows to be scarce when the asshole is home. He nuzzles his wide head into my side, and I cling on to him as if he’s my last hope for drawing my next breath. Everything about him: the smell of his doggy fur, the warmth of his breath, and the devotion he shows me somehow makes up for everything Dylan isn’t.

  This is the sad irony of my life—my dog loves me with unwavering commitment, and my husband shits where he sleeps.

  Isn’t life grand?

  For the next few hours, I’m free. I’m able to eat what I want, how I want—as long as the dishes are done by the time Dylan gets home. I can watch what I want on TV—as long as I return the station to his favorite before I switch it off. Damn, I can have a beer—as long as I remember to place them on the shopping list for the next day.

  Okay, so I’m not free. But in my life of strict routine and desperation to please, it’s the closest I’ll ever get. And as much as it saddens me, I realize I appreciate the fact Dylan has a wandering eye. After all, if he weren’t out fucking Deandra I’d never get this time to myself, this time to breathe. Time to feel like Jane again.

  I relish it.

  Every goddamn second.

  ROCCO WHIMPERS, and promptly flees from the bed. The red LED on the alarm clock shows it’s a little after two in the morning. Right on schedule. If nothing else, at least Dylan is predictable.

  Lights run in a mocking Mexican wave across the bedroom walls as his engine nears, then dies. You know that Pearl Jam song, “Better Man”? Yeah, well at times like this I swear the damn thing was written for me. I’m the girl who pretends she’s asleep. I’m the girl who stays for fear of nothing better.

  The door slams into the entrance wall, and two thuds indicate his boots are now strewn somewhere in the general vicinity of our entranceway. A slam shakes the walls, and he bursts into a fit of giggles. “Can’t wake Sh-leeping Beauty,” he slurs, and bounces his way through to the bedroom.

  Bounces, I say, because his shoulders damn near ricochet off every vertical surface in the house.

  My stomach clenches, and a fine sheen of sweat breaks out behind my knees. Awake, asleep—it wouldn’t matter. He’ll do whatever he’s in the mood for either way. Some nights he comes home for round two, apparently unsatisfied with the amount Deandra could dish out. Other nights he berates me until I feel ready to vomit I’m suppressing my tears so hard. Tonight is the same as any other from my side; I’m simply hoping he’ll leave me the hell alone.

  But that’s a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of event.

  And given how black the bedroom is, the moon’s not out tonight.

  He mutters under his breath as the click of the belt buckle, and the scrape of denim on skin leaves me set to hurl. My heart pounds in my ears, and for the briefest moment I panic that he may be able to hear it too. The anticipation of the act never eases over time. If anything, it increases. You’d think after all these years I’d be numb, accustomed to his habits. Well, what can I say—I’m still human.

  Fear still finds me.

  The bed dips under his weight, and the wave that rolls under me indicates he’s having trouble lying down without falling over in a drunken stupor. Awesome. I can’t hold back the violent shudder that rips through me as his cold hands connect with my shoulder. He chuckles to himself, and I still under his touch.

  Seems Deandra wasn’t in top form tonight.

  He runs his ragged fingers over my flesh, eliciting goose bumps where his touch trails. There’s no denying I’m awake now. Still, I don’t move. I’m past the point of being able to fake any interest in his venomous touch.

  Strong fingers clamp over my side like a vice, and he wrenches me toward him so I’m lying on my back. The pungent aroma of bourbon stings my nostrils, and I push down a gag. That would only incite him to stick something else down my throat.

  His lazy braille over my body continues, and I lie as still as I can. Heaven help he might mistake a flinch for interest. Sometimes I wonder if this kind of relationship is the exact thing that inspired someone to write ‘The Perfect Housewife Guide Book” in the fifties.

  Fingertips drag up my
thigh, before he jams his hand roughly between my legs.

  His breath tickles my ear. “When the fuck are you going to start being wet for me, you fucking whore?”

  When the fuck are you going to give me a reason to be? Despite the rage burning inside, I say nothing.

  The spine-chilling sound of him spitting on his hand echoes between us, and I wince. He rams his hand back down there, and rubs his saliva over me with enough vigor to start a damn fire.

  He isn’t far from succeeding, given the burn that creeps into the junction of my thighs. A cry slips from my lips, and he sighs. Shit.

  “Jane, Jane, Jane,” he tuts. “You know, I’ve had about as much of your complaining as I can take this week.” A calloused hand clamps down over my mouth, and nose. “How about we have a nice, quiet fuck for a change?”

  The fumes from his breath have my head spinning. Or is that the lack of oxygen?

  He crushes my leg in his drunken attempt to roll over the top of me and pin me to the bed. Somehow he manages enough coordination to position himself between my legs without removing his hand from my face.

  Panic constricts in my chest, and I wage a war with my head not to give in. If I panic, I’ll only burn through the small amount of oxygen remaining in my lungs faster. I need to stay calm. I need to win this time.

  Pressure builds in my temples as he thrusts inside of me, and the burn of his dry entry is only matched by the burn of my eyes as the ache in my head intensifies. I suck at his palm, desperate for the smallest ounce of air, but all I manage to do is create a greater vacuum.

  He laughs.

  “You wanna breathe, darling?”

  I nod furiously.

  “Not yet.” He pummels into me with disturbing precision, given his inebriated state.

  Tears form in the corners of my eyes, and I curse at myself for enabling my emotions. Pity won’t help me out of this situation. Determination will at least help. I blink my tears away, and force my air-starved brain to find any scrap of hope. The calculations run in a foggy haze through my mind, and right as I come to the conclusion that I’m fucked—salvation.

  Air, sweet yet toxic, rips into my lungs. It burns at the soft tissue, pushing into my chest with unrelenting force as my body instinctually gasps for as much of the sweet stuff as I can get … in case he covers my mouth again.