The Woman in the Glass

By G.D. Gaetz

Which is the real Claire Carlyle? The compliant housewife or the woman who seethes with pent up rage?

Trapped in a violent marriage to a ruthless man, Claire knows Dennis will never let her leave. Desperate for a way out, Claire resorts to chopping up vegetables with a fourteen-inch butcher knife.

She pretends they are body parts.

She pretends they are Dennis.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Write Words Inc.
• Release date: Jun 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781594319112

Book preview

1

Woman in the Glass

by G.D. Gaetz

Published at Swmashwords by Write Words, Inc.

© 2011 G.D. Gaetz All Rights Reserved

First Electronic Edition, February, 2011

ISBN 978-1-59431-911-2

Chapter 1

I grasped the knife like a handshake, felt its reassuring weight in my hand. I held it above the cutting board, over a pale and perfect onion. Whack. I brought the blade down hard. A clean cut through the middle.

Just like that. A firm, round onion one second, the next it lay in two broken pieces. I kept chopping, whack-whack-whack, until that onion was a pile of tiny bits. I put my knife down, satisfied.

But the onion took revenge. My eyes stung so fiercely I could barely see to slide its pale remains into the sizzling butter. I dabbed tears from my cheeks. And smiled. Nothing gave me more pleasure than chopping things to bits. Nothing.

I tossed in some cubed chicken. Chicken stew tonight! I called over my shoulder.

Yum! Kylie answered from the family room. Where’s Daddy going this time?

My four-year-old daughter lay on her stomach by the gas fireplace. Her legs were bent up at the knees, one purple sock on, one off, little white toes wiggled in the air. Blond curls hid her face and tumbled over her coloring book. Kylie dropped a yellow crayon onto the carpet and selected a red one.

He has a meeting, I told her.

Daddy always has meetings.

Your daddy works hard.

Anyways, I love chicken stew! Kylie clutched the red crayon in her fist and scribbled across the page.

I loved stew, Kylie loved stew, Dennis wouldn’t eat it. He said stew was for common people, whatever that meant. Maybe if I called it Chicken Ragout he would consent to taste it. But to be honest, he wasn’t worth the bother. Kylie and I could eat what we liked on the nights Dennis went out. Happily that was often.

I chopped a potato and stirred it into the pot. Next came a carrot. I selected a fat, sturdy one, six inches long, an inch in diameter. For a moment I held it in my hand, feeling the size and weight of it, the solid firmness of it. I set it on the cutting board, raised my butcher knife, and chopped off each end. Clunk, clunk. One and then the other. Clean and neat and satisfying.

Putting down my knife I reached for the vegetable peeler. I scraped every inch of skin from that carrot, rinsed it, and laid it out on the cutting board, bright orange and shiny. I raised the knife again.

Claire! Dennis yelled from our upstairs bedroom. Where did you put my speech?

What speech? I called over my shoulder.

What speech do you think? he snapped. The one for tonight, didn’t you edit it like I asked?

Wham. I slammed the knife down and two halves of carrot went flying. Taking a quick breath, I made my voice calm, for Kylie’s sake. It’s in the den, on your desk.

Good. He paused for two seconds then, Bring it up here. I need it.

I stared down at the knife clenched in my angry fist. Almost two inches wide at the base, the blade tapered to a needle-sharp point. My fingers curled around its wooden handle. A perfect fit, as if the knife were made for my hand alone. I pictured the blade drenched in blood. Dennis’ blood.

I’ll be there in a minute, I called.

Hurry it up, will you?

I picked up the carrot halves. Wham, wham, wham, wham. The razor-sharp edge of my lovely knife pounded against the wooden board in a pleasing rhythm. Seconds later the carrot lay in ruins.

I glanced at the small window above my kitchen sink. Thanks to total darkness outside my reflection was as clear as in a mirror. I hardly recognized the woman who gazed back at me. I was only thirty-two, she looked ten years older. I reached up to touch my hair and the woman did the same. Not so long ago my hair had been a rich chocolate brown that lay smooth and shining about my face. The woman in the glass had mousey-brown hair that hung in limp curls to her shoulders. I leaned closer. One eye was puffed up like a purple plum. Such a clumsy woman. Always bumping into fists.

No. The woman in the glass was not me. She was my weak outside shell. Her eyes were blank. They reflected her world and no one could see past them.

No one saw the real me. The me who seethed with rage. They saw only that weak woman cowering in the window, afraid and ashamed. I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to throw my butcher knife and break her to bits. Instead I chopped vegetables and pretended they were body parts. I pretended they were Dennis.

Claire! Bring that goddamn speech up here right now or I’ll know the reason why.

Kylie’s head jerked up. I smiled at her. My little girl’s lips curled uncertainly but she bowed her head and went back to her work.

I’ll know the reason why. What a stupid expression. As if Dennis really wanted to know why. If he did, I would tell him I had work to do. I would tell him I hated feeling afraid every day of my life. I would tell him to let me leave before I placed a knife in his back.

Coming! The woman in the glass said.

I walked briskly to the den, grabbed Dennis’ speech, and headed for the stairs. My steps slowed as I neared the top. My heart pounded so hard it hurt.

Chapter 2

How many times had I dreamed of killing Dennis? At least once for every stair I took up to the bedroom. At least once for every time he beat me half to death.