I Promise

• Rebecca Marshall, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2015

“I work, I clean, I cook. What more do you want from me Bill?” I exclaimed loudly.
“Nothing Karen. I love you. You know I do. But I want the house to be clean and dinner to be on the table when I get home from work. I work all day. I think I at least deserve dinner on time!” Bill shouted angrily.
“So you expect me to take Jack to school, come back home and clean, do the shopping, do the washing and the dishes, make dinner, be a loving wife and then work at the hospital for eight hours?” I demanded angrily.
Bill paced the room.
“That’s not what I’m saying. But I expect you to do the woman’s work around here. I mean, do I look like a woman to you? Because God knows I wear the pants in this family!”
“That’s it Bill! I am sick to death of your attitude. It seems to me that I’m the one who looks after everyone. Now the shoe is going to be on the other foot. You can cook and clean and work, because I’m leaving!” I screamed.
Bill slapped me.
I reeled from the force of the blow and fell to the floor. A large welt appeared on my left cheekbone. It wasn’t the first time he’d hit me, but in that moment, I swore it would be the last. As I got to my feet, I glanced at Bill’s face. It was furious and I quickly averted my eyes, anxious not to anger him further.
“How dare you speak to me that way, woman! You are my wife and you will do what I want, where I want, when I want. I am stronger and smarter and by far your superior, so treat me with respect and courtesy. Now, I expect you to do your duties as a wife with no more complaining, no more whining and no more sulking. Is that clear?” Bill thundered.
“Y-y-y-yes Bill,” I stammered quietly, hoping he would calm down. “I-I-I didn’t m-m-mean it, honest. I’m s-s-sorry.”
“Good,” Bill said, quietly, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt. “Goodnight Karen.” He kissed me softly on the cheek, as if nothing had happened.
“Goodnight Bill,” I said meekly, not looking into his eyes, instead staring at my feet and the linoleum tiles beneath them.
As Bill walked away, I started planning, all while still staring at my feet. Where can my feet take me, I wondered. What places can I see, what adventures can I go on? I’ll have to take Jack, of course. I can’t leave him here with Bill. Part of me regretted thinking of leaving, but another part of me was ecstatic that I might soon be free and I might escape this hole I’d been stuck in for 23 years. I’ll wait till Bill leaves for work in the morning, I thought. That way, Jack and I will have at least 9 hours to make it far away from here. Then a thought struck me. Where will we go? I thought about it silently for a moment, then came to the conclusion that I would cross that bridge when I came to it.
I snuck into my bedroom and into bed. I didn’t make a sound for fear I would wake Bill and that he would somehow discover my plan. As I drifted into the black abyss of sleep, I relaxed and wondered what tomorrow might bring.
A ray of sunshine fell upon my face as I awoke the next morning to the sound of chirping birds and Jack moving about the house, getting ready for school. As I rolled onto my side, I saw a small note on Bill’s pillow, with a chocolate heart stuck on top. I read the note aloud to myself.
“I’m sorry about last night. I have a surprise planned for when I get home tonight. Love, Bill.” This weakened my resolve to leave considerably.
“Maybe he will stop now. Maybe he’s seen the error of his ways and has decided to change for the better,” I whispered to myself quietly. But somehow, in my heart, I knew that it would never stop if I stayed with Bill. He wouldn’t change for anything, not even me. That thought made me sad beyond belief.
“I have to leave. I have to leave. I have to leave,” I repeated to myself, trying to strengthen my resolve. Rising from the bed, I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked different, stronger somehow. But I don’t look any different really. It’s just my imagination, I thought to myself.
“Jack” I called out my bedroom door. “Jack, honey, pack your things. We’re going on a holiday.”
I felt guilty for not telling him where we were actually going. I’ll tell you one day Jack. I promise...