The Circle Review
Marks
Len Kuntz
She counts scars and makes herself remember how she came by each one. Was she so stupid? Had she been, as Lonnie said? The starburst scar below her left breast was for forgetting Coors Light. The ones on her clavicle were for cutting her hair without permission. The mark right below her chin was her own fault, or kind of, when running from Lonnie but slipping on a beer spill and landing on the kitchen floor. Oh how he’d laughed. Jolly at her folly.
Her sister, Sandy knows. Sandy’s brought books around, sent links about spousal abuse. Said the horror can become a kind of sadistic narcotic, addictive even.
But Lonnie’s snoring now. The sun is struggling to rise. She has a knife upraised, wondering what freedom will really feel like.
She Was A Good Girl
Len Kuntz
Except she only had seven toes. Except she was someone’s daughter. Except the moon sometimes loomed too large, brooding and accusing her of things she only thought about but never did. Except she hadn’t lost her virginity to anyone or anything other than her fingers, her hand, her palm, a small, plush pillow.
Except her mother brought home strays and one stayed too long and owned the girl, as if he was a slave-trader with a large wallet and other bulging things. Except, to her own surprise, at age nine, she became surly and strong, found a long knife in the top slot of the butcher block, used it like stake through a vampire’s heart, saw him pant and bleed out, saw herself rise, rise and keep rising toward freedom.
Bottom
Len Kuntz
It’s been years since he’s slept on the sofa, ages since he’s done anything even close to this stupid. An imposter here now, their house feels different from at such an angle on the corduroy couch—cloistered but impervious. The air smells unfamiliar as well, like socks and acres of potato chips. Every once in a while the house makes a knuckle-cracking sound, still settling after so much time.
He wonders if she’s asleep yet, doubts it. In the morning, she’ll likely share her verdict and he’ll find out if she is leaving him. Most wives would.
In his pajama pocket is the last bit of powder. It’s not much, but when he switches laying positions, it feels like a rabbit’s foot kneading into his thigh. He never thought he’d be the kind of person to do something like this, and probably that was most of the problem, the distorted view he had.
A voice inside his head has been talking to him, frantic then languid, urging action, then saying, “Settle down, Big Boy. Just let me in.”
That voice has been with him four years now, ubiquitous the last two.
He’d gone to the NA meeting at her insistence. At first he was going to lie and say he’d gone, but the voice said, “One way or another, it doesn’t matter.” Plus he figured it might make a difference to the judge and lawyers and maybe his old firm from whom he stole the money.
At the meeting, people sat in a crocked circle. No one looked content. Instead everyone seemed broken, both physically and spiritually. They gave him their nervous eyes because he was the new guy to Group. Quite a few of the attendees talked about how a person had to hit bottom before they could start the long haul back. Every time they said that about hitting bottom they followed up with the word “healing” as if it were mystical rite or Oz in Technicolor.
When the meeting adjourned, and right after everyone joined hands in The Serenity Prayer, he ran out before anyone could accost him. He probably wasn’t going back anytime soon.
Now his neck is sore from so many hours on the short couch. He’s got a headache. His mouth is parched as if he’s been sucking on newsprint. And his stomach is rumbly. He allows himself a laugh, but then clamps fingers over his mouth so his wife won’t hear. “Broken.” He’s the broken one.
The powder burns as much as it ever has. His nasal cavities are eroded, nearly collapsed against bone. He takes another long sniff, then a bonus tug. Licks his finger, wipes up the dust on the glass coffee table and rubs it against his gums.
When he looks up, his wife is there. She has bedhead and her arms are crossed, but it’s her eyes that tell the story. Large but defeated, they say It’s time to leave.