Exist Music (For A Film)

“You didn’t get the chicken out as I asked you,” Brenda said when she returned home. Not even a hi or a how are you. More disappointment: can’t do anything right, can’t do anything to please her. Every single day it’s something new with her. Didn’t make the bed how she wanted, didn’t clean how she wanted. Didn’t do anything like she wanted, and she’ll always make sure to tell me about how I am just so horrible. That I do nothing right. Whatever, I am used to it, used to the constant nagging. The voice in my ear always telling me that I am a screw-up.

I am sitting on the couch, with a game on. I just got home from a stressful shift a few hours ago. I work in welding; it's a demanding job. I try to explain the stress to her, and she just doesn’t get it. She doesn’t let up. “Im sorry, I forgot,” I mumbled in return. I fidgeted with the buttons on the remote; I just knew she’d make a big deal of this. Brenda set her things on the counter in one harsh motion. I know she’s pissed; I know she’s angry. Brenda laughs sarcastically, “You always forget. Let me guess. It just slipped your mind?” A rhetorical question- how she loves those. How she loves to sarcastically ask me things, already knowing the answer. “Honey, I had a long day,” I say in response. I set down the remote on the side table. I pick up my beer beside me; it's a Miller Light, tastes like throw-up, but I needed something to take the edge off. If I bought the good stuff, she’d hag on me for spending so much money.

Brenda huffs. I hear her heavy footsteps come up to me; she stands right in front of me and the TV. She’s in her scrubs, all misheveled; she had a long day too. Both of our jobs are stressful; you’d think that she’d understand- clearly not, I guess. “So, instead of helping with dinner, you sat down and turned on some sports game.” She’s crossed her arms, making sure I know that the night is ruined because of me. I clench my beer can in my hand and try to look over her figure blocking the screen. “I had a long day at work,” I say through clenched teeth. I did; the new guy fucked something up, and I had to spend hours fixing it. We are in the middle of a big project; I’ve been stressed, she knows this. Brenda throws her hands up in the air, “Well, some old man threw his bedpan at me today! So I’d say we both had long days.” She looks down at me and sighs. I look up at her and furrow my brow, teeth still clenched. “We can just order something. No need to make a big fuss over food.”

Brenda shook her head and said. “No, this isn’t just about dinner. It’s about how you always forget; everything just slips your mind.” I take a sip of my beer before setting it down. Brenda is always on about something; I don’t want to argue, but she makes me act this way; she makes me get so angry. “I don’t want to argue right now,” I say; it’s truthful; I just want to watch the game. Brenda purses her lips and shakes her head. She’s relentless; it's like she wants to make me mad. “Me neither; I just want you to take accountability.” My ears feel hot; that hit me hard. Take accountability for what? Having a bad day at work and forgetting to take out chicken from the freezer? “I am not going to take accountability for having a bad day, Brenda.” I roll my eyes and stretch my neck so I can see the TV. Brenda starts to walk away and mumbles something to herself. I can’t catch all of it, but I hear the words ‘you don’t need to be such a fucking baby’ come out of her lips.

Baby. Wow, she’s stooping that low, over some goddamn chicken.

I put the recliner down on my chair; I got a new chair, accidentally broke the other one. It was old anyway. I stand up and turn to her; she's in the kitchen. “What did you just say to me?” I ask her. I know what she said, but I want her to repeat it, say it to my face. Brenda looks over at me and softly says, “Nothing, Peter.” Wow, so now she’s suddenly all quiet, acting like she wasn’t getting in my face earlier about some stupid chicken. I walk up to her; I tower over her, something I found endearing when we were younger. I look down at her and ask her once again, “What did you say?” She doesn’t make eye contact with me. Brenda looks at the floor and replies, “Listen, I am sorry, I am just feeling bad after my shift. Let’s just order takeout.” No way, no fucking way. She came in making a big fuss, tossing her shit all over the counter, getting in my face, complaining how I am just the worst person ever, over some chicken. I shake my head, “No. Say what you just said earlier.” I pause, waiting for her to say it. I want her to say it; I want her to own up to it. Own up to her name-calling. I never call her names; it's so insulting. My mother used to name-call me as a kid, call me stupid, a bitch, a fuck-up. I would never name-call her. Brenda, still looking at the floor, bites her lip and says, “Please, I am sorry.” She’s making herself look desperate, like I am just some monster.

I go to grab her face so she’d look at me, but as I am doing that, she runs to the back door. I go after her, and I grab her by her arm. I pull her back, holding her in place so she cannot run from me. I laugh at her audacity and ask her, “What did you fucking say? Don’t run.” I lean in closer to her face. I see sweat rolling down her forehead. She has no other choice; we both know what she said. She just has to fess up. “I said you were being a baby.” She whispers under her breath. I look at her in disgust; she can’t even say it with her full chest. “Say it louder.” My voice is raised this time; it's demanding. Brenda looks like she’s about to cry, and I am the baby apparently. She says it in a louder tone, “I said that you were acting like a baby.” My grip on her arm becomes tighter, and she tries to pull away. That just infuriated me more; it's like she’s begging for this, it’s like she wants this.

I strike her in the face, right across her cheek. Not enough to cause a mark, but to teach her a lesson. “Don’t call me that shit ever again,” I tell her through clenched teeth. Brenda starts with the crocodile tears; God, she always makes a big fuss. “Peter, why do you do this?” Her voice sounds so fake. She wants this. She is craving this, apparently. Apparently, we cannot have a good night; she just needs to ruin it. Brenda can never be good, never can be a good girl for me. I hit her again in the face, this time a little harder; she goes stumbling back. Dramatic. “Why are you so fucking dramatic?” I ask her, letting go of her arm. She goes onto the floor. Brenda is the one acting like a baby, if anything. I am being mature about it, and she’s stumbling all over the ground like she just learned to walk. I stand over her and kick her in the side; she starts to cry. “Stop crying,” I tell her, making sure she hears the authority in my voice. She doesn’t abide by it; she just keeps crying. I start mocking her, “Wahh wahh, look at me, I’m Brenda.” I make the gesture of tears falling down my face. I grab her by her hair and pull her up.

Brenda's voice is tearful, and she shouts, “I said I’m sorry!” She’s pleading with me; I hate when she does that. Makes me feel shitty, like I am the bad guy. “Don’t plead with me.” I huff at her; I hit her again, this time with a closed fist, to show her I am serious. If she doesn’t cut out this whole ‘poor me’ thing, I’ll make sure she never does it again. I rub her cheek where I hit her, trying to show her that if she just stops this hissy fit, it’ll all be over. “I am not! I am just being truthful; I am sorry.” She replies. Wrong decision; she isn’t being truthful. I know she’s not sorry, because if she was, she’d be ordering food right now. I’m still holding her by her hair with one hand, and I stop stroking her cheek with the other. I push her head into the side of the fridge. I hold her head there, making sure it’s firm against the cold surface. Brenda begs, “Please stop, Peter; you are hurting me.” Her voice is sad; it's making me sad, and it’s making me angrier. I hate this fake act she puts up, acting like she’s some type of goddamn victim.

That just sends me over the edge. I am not hurting her. If I were hurting her, she wouldn’t even be able to talk right now. “Oh? I am hurting you?” I laugh to myself, and I slam her head against the fridge. “I’m hurting you?” I slam her head against the fridge once again. I just keep slamming her head against the fridge, each time with more force. I keep repeating the words ‘I’m hurting you?’ over and over again, making sure to mock her words.

Brenda falls to the ground and curls up in a ball, and she says through tears, “Please.” I lose it; I just start hitting her. She just makes me lose my temper; I cannot help myself. I hit her over and over again; I hear the thud of my fist hitting her face, and I hear her scream as she begs me to stop. Her mouth and nose soon become bloody, but it doesn’t stop me. I need her to shut up; I need her to be quiet. I need her to stop the nagging, stop the bitching, stop the begging; I need her to stop. My hands keep coming in contact with her body; every time it does, she recoils in pain. If only she didn’t feel the need for this, if only she could be as good as she once was. Maybe she just grew bitter. Every time this happens, for a while she’ll be good, for a few weeks, and then she’ll nag at me for something. Then the cycle continues; I am just trying to teach her a lesson. I am doing this because I love her.

Soon, her crying stops; she falls silent. I pause, and I look down at her. Her breathing is still heavy, but tears have stopped falling out of her face; she’s stopped the screaming. Something aches inside of me when I see this; she’s realized, she’s realized that her voice was the problem, that she was the problem. “Oh, honey,” I say to her. I help her up. She’s shaking, she’s scared, but she’s quiet, and that’s all I wanted her to be. I stroke her face, wiping a bit of blood from her nose off with my thumb. “Let me take you to bed; I’ll order some food for us.” She’s realized that she was the issue, and I am so proud of her for that. Sometimes she just won’t shut up, and I’ll go till I get tired, which makes me sore for the next day of work.

I walk her to our room; it's always so perfectly decorated. She loves decor; she loves her knick-knacks. It pisses me off sometimes, but the things we do for love. I let go of her and lean her against the wall. I unmake the bed for her, tossing the decorative pillows and blankets on the ground. Usually she’d get upset that I didn’t fold them and set them on the chair like she wanted. But this time she’s quiet; she's good. I pull back the sheets for her. I go over to Brenda and guide her to the bed, making sure to help her lie down. I lean down to her and ask her, “Can I have a kiss, honey?” She nods, and I lean down further, and she kisses me on the lips. I smile and go over to the door. “I’ll order some Chinese, your favorite,” I tell her. I need to reward her for shutting up so quickly; as I said, sometimes it takes a long time.

I start heading out of the room, but I forgot to say something to her. I go back and lean in the doorway. “Hey honey, next time don’t be such a bitch, okay?”

A/N: Hi guys, I wanted to try out something different. I hope that this tells you not to trust the narrator, not to always feel bad for someone just because the story is from their point of view. This piece is titled after the Radiohead song. If you need help, the national hotline for domestic abuse phone number is 1-800-799-7233.