Pillow Talk - A Cautionary Tale of Fiction  

womanoirish 55F
346 posts
3/25/2006 1:43 pm

Last Read:
4/4/2006 10:11 pm

Pillow Talk - A Cautionary Tale of Fiction

I almost murdered my husband. Ex-husband really, as of many years ago. I find that "almost" counts as much in murder as it does in horseshoes and hand-grenades. Our legal system even recognizes that, being filled with such terms as "attempted murder" and "malicious intent." I, however, never had to explain my actions to a judge.

In the early years of my marriage, long after the honeymoon glow had worn off, my husband had taken to long bouts of drinking with his buddies. These binges usually occurred on a Friday or Saturday night, with the remaining time spent recovering for work Monday morning. I stayed home with our small children, uninvited and bored. Not that I would have gone, if invited. I didn't find the prospect of drinking oneself into a stupor and dealing with a hang-over while caring for a three year old and a six month old entertaining in the least.

One weekend, however, I found myself particularly resentful of my husband's boorish activities. The previous weekend's alcoholic excess had him puking in our kitchen all over the clean dishes drying on the dish rack and passing out on the couch. I was left with the mess, as usual. This weekend, I did not look forward to the same scenario. My feelings made no difference to my husband's behavior.

That Friday night he came home, reeking with Jim Beam and stale cigarette smoke. Stumbling up the stairs to our bedroom, he sat down heavily on his side of the bed. He blinked at me through bleary eyes and gave me a lopsided grin. I was not amused.

"Have a good time"? I sarcastically asked, not really interested in the reply.

"Sure did, babe," he slurred.

I turned over and tried to go back to sleep. He leaned over and started to untie his shoe laces. After about five minutes I heard snoring. He had passed out, sitting on the bed, bent over to take off his shoes. Sighing, I got out of bed and went around to his side. I lifted up his shoulders and his head bobbed and bounced like a cork in water. I turned my head sharply as his mouth expelled some foul smelling breath, informing me that he had vomited somewhere on the way home. Mostly like in the car. As I raised him up, his body naturally fell backwards onto the bed. Picking up each leg by the calf, I struggled to swing him around to get his feet on the bed. I only succeeded in getting him to lie diagonally on the bed. Fuck. This left no room for me.

Standing over him, listening to his loud drunken snores, I realized I would have to sleep on the couch tonight. Our bedroom reeked of alcoholic fumes, growing more intense with each breath he expelled. Heaving a sigh of my own, I sat on the chair beside the bed contemplating how this came to be. As I sat their, I realized I should probably turn him on his side as, not knowing how much alcohol he had consumed, if he should vomit again, he might choke. As I got up to turn him, the thought struck me as how venerable a drunk person was.

The American Heritage Dictionary defines the word drunk as, ”Intoxicated with alcoholic liquor to the point of impairment of physical and mental faculties.” The word intoxicated is from the Latin toxicum, which simply means “to poison.” My husband was poisoning himself with alcohol. Poisoning himself by inducing a series of progressively deteriorating states from exhilaration to stupefaction. Much like my marriage was, at this point.

These thoughts passing through my mind, I began to wonder how much a person in a state of stupefaction would be aware of the most basic human bodily functions. Would that intoxicated person be aware if those functions stopped? For instance, breathing. I found myself following the rhythm of his chest with a clinical detachment. Rising and falling. Air going in, air going out. All so very natural and automatic. With a start, I realized I was now straddling my husband’s inert body, watching him. Watching him breathe. Would he, I wondered, start to struggle in this state, if he couldn’t breathe? Would his poisoned brain even signal his limbs to fight?

As my eyes traced the floral pattern of the pillowcase, I experimented a bit with the position of the pillow. Straight down created a pocket of air between the nose and the pillow. Lifting the chin slightly, and then pressing down with the pillow worked best because the snoring stopped. I waited. The ticking of the clock grew loud in the silence. Ten seconds. Fifteen seconds. Twenty seconds. One minute and no sign of struggle.

Sixty seconds can stretch to an eternity when waiting for someone to breathe. As I sat astride my inebriated husband’s body and waited, I began to imagine what would happen if he didn’t breathe. If he didn’t realize his body had not taken the next breath and his brain, to drunk to react, didn’t put up a fight. My mind began to play out the scene with the police.

“But, Officer, I was just trying to see if he would struggle,” I exclaimed! “It was just an experiment! Honest!”

“You have the right to remain silent.”

“But it’s all just a simple mistake!”

The clock was just reaching a minute and fifty-five seconds when I whipped the pillow off his face. His chest heaving, his lungs gasping for air in fits and starts, he finally pulled in enough air to fill his lungs to capacity. His body exhaled the pent-up toxic fumes in an almost visible sigh of relief. His eyes never opened. I rolled him over on his side, turned off the light and slept on the couch.

Funny thing, though, I didn’t tell this story until almost a month later. We were at a party with other couples, some of whom the husbands were his drinking buddies. One husband was suffering from a reverse “Mohawk” and was being teased about it. It seems his wife had gotten tired of him passing out on the couch every Saturday night and had taken a razor to his head. Laughing with her about her unique method of dealing with a misbehaving husband, I told my “pillow” story. The wives couldn’t stop laughing, but the husbands, huddled together near the beer cooler, were totally silent. My husband was eyeing me with a look I had never seen before on his face. I do know that after hearing about those two minutes, he never came home drunk again. Whether he stuck with it or not after I divorced him, I don’t know.

©WOI 2006

rm_1hotwahine 64F
21091 posts
3/26/2006 1:26 pm

Although I never quite had to deal with these extremes, your second paragraph informs me of why we're friends, lol. Kind of like war buddies...

Yeah, I'm still [blog 1hotwahine]

rm_1hotwahine 64F
21091 posts
3/26/2006 1:27 pm

WAIT!! Fiction? Awwww, bummer...

Yeah, I'm still [blog 1hotwahine]

HBowt2 60F

3/27/2006 3:53 pm

divorce was definitely the better route.....

madoldman1776 80M
23 posts
3/28/2006 10:29 pm

Should have just killed the bastard.

pinkpet06 47F

3/29/2006 5:00 pm

Man I wish I had used the super glue trick - thought about it - but never had the nerve - you go girl!

_CoffeeNoCream_ 53F

3/30/2006 8:40 am

I understand completely *S*

slidein2meplz 63F
1994 posts
3/30/2006 6:24 pm

thus the reason I broke off my engagement 7 years ago.... asshole drank every weekend to that same extreme...and he always brought home strange street people...to party.

I woke up one night..actually the wee hours of the morning to find him and 3 homeless people sitting in the back yard, every fucking light on in the house.. 3 TV's goin, stereo goin..loud...and fire blazing in the chimenea and all 4 of 'em drinking beer out of my GOOD CRYSTAL GLASSES... I nearly shit...and snatched those glasses away from them as fast as I could all the while screaming at the asshole to get these people out of here.

The next day I said... "I will put up with just so much...and then I won't anymore"....and he just looked at me like...duh, what do you mean by that...and then said those exact words. My reply was hide and watch. For 2 weeks he "calmed" his drinking down... by the 3rd week, it was full on drunken weekend...again the next day... I said..."Only so much, then no more"...2 more weeks he was good...by the 3rd week again...drunk...by the 4th week I was gone.

Glad you came to your senses if the feeling was true about the pillow...and if it wasn't... damn good thought...lol. No asshole is worth it, course others who have been thru worse might disagree. Can't say I've been in those shoes and hope I never am...or any woman reading this...I hope it never happens to them.

~~~ Just me, poppin to say HI! ~~

bardicman 51M

3/31/2006 3:05 am

Fact or Fiction... You be the judge...

I am not dead yet

rm_zhuk4u 63M
25 posts
4/4/2006 7:34 pm

If the shoe wasw on the other foot and it was the woman that was the lush, I suppose superglueing her asshole shut and not telling her about it until she was farting out of her mouth would be the right thing to do...Don't you think so???

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