Echoes of Regret Page #6

• Drama

								


“They aren’t the best sleepers in the first year, that’s for sure.” I said, suggesting he was correct. The truth was, I had trouble falling asleep the prior evening. In an attempt to wear myself out, had gone out to the garage to workout with the bags, but found no relief from the physical exertion. I instead settled on using  a bottle of whiskey to help lull me to sleep, but even that didn’t seem to work the way it used to. 

The factory day dragged on, each minute ticking at an unbearable slow pace. My mind kept returning to the tepid shower and the sight of June’s vibrant, carefree demeanor. I couldn’t shake the image of her looking so effortlessly perfect while I was left with nothing but the bitter dregs of my own life. 

I drove home through an endless stream of traffic lights, each one red. When I finally trudged through the door at home, the familiar chaos greeted me—Brendan’s cries mixed with Heather’s chatter. The house was stifling, the walls closed in on me. I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear the fog of frustration and exhaustion, but it was no use. The day had taken its toll, and the weight of everything felt heavier than ever.

June was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Her back was to me as she chopped vegetables, the rhythmic sound of the knife on the cutting board filled the room. I could smell the aroma of the meal she was preparing, a stark contrast to the sourness that had settled in my mood.

I dropped my keys on the counter with a clatter that startled her. She turned, her face lighting up with her usual bright smile. “How was work?” she asked, but the question seemed to hit me like a taunt rather than genuine concern.

Her pleasant demeanor encouraged me to force a smile. “It was just work,” I replied, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. She turned back to her task, humming softly.

It was then that I noticed something—the way she wore a bright apron over her suit, which was now a bit disheveled. The apron was supposed to be a symbol of domesticity and care, but to me, it felt like a mockery of everything I’d lost. As if she was boasting that she could work all day and come home and be everything she was supposed to be, effortlessly, and these thoughts seeped into mind and twisted into something that felt like a personal slight.

As June leaned over to get a pot from a low cupboard, I saw a tiny bit of the vegetable peels drop onto the floor, I saw her look at the pile and continue cutting. It may seem insignificant, yet in my fragile state, it felt like the last straw. As if each peel she dropped was another layer of me stripped away, left to rot on the kitchen floor. My thoughts darkened, turning  her small transgression into evidence of her neglect.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the sight of the small mess on the floor was enough to push me over the edge. My frustration boiled over, and without warning, I stormed into the kitchen, grabbing the closest thing to my hand—a metal ladle. Without another thought it flew from my grasp, as it hurled across the room. The clang of the ladle against the tiled floor reverberated throughout the kitchen, June’s eyes widened in shock and fear. 

“What is wrong with you?” June shrieked, her face red and frozen in surprise. 

“I’m sick of cleaning up your messes!” I screamed back, my voice breaking. “You’re so wrapped up in your perfect little world that you can’t even notice how miserable I am!”

June’s face paled, and she stepped back instinctively, her eyes darting around as if looking for an escape. I grabbed the edge of the kitchen table, my knuckles turned white while my hands shook. The frustration and anger that had been building up exploded, and before I knew it, I slammed my fist onto the table, the force causing the dishes to rattle. I saw June flinch, a look of pure terror crossing her face.

The sight of her, so frightened, snapped me out of my rage for a moment. I took a deep breath, but the damage had been done. The thrown ladle, however minor this instance was, had crossed a line that couldn’t be undone. June’s reaction said it all—this wasn’t a fleeting argument. It was an escalation that couldn’t be ignored.

The rest of the evening passed in a tense silence. June avoided eye contact, her demeanor cold and distant. I knew, deep down, that I had crossed a boundary that was unforgivable. The incident, no matter how small in scale, was a clear signal of how far I had let my anger and resentment take me. 

I ended my evening in sweet solitude, hiding in the garage. I spun the black lid, of a half empty bottle of Early Times, to the left. The smell of spiced earthy tones flooded my nostrils. As the burn of the whiskey settled in, I couldn’t shake the image of June’s terrified face. It lingered in my mind, but the tornado forming in my gut was not produced by remorse. June thought she was better than me, above it all, more righteous. The more gulps I swallowed down, the clearer it became that June was purposefully antagonizing me.  

Do you ever get the sense that something tragic is brewing? The relentless anticipation of impending doom, like a storm that refuses to break, can have catastrophic repercussions.

The Final Act

“I’m going to show everyone!” Warren stomped through the house, his movements erratic as he shoved odds and ends into an oversized duffel bag. Venom laced his words, seeping through the teeth he couldn’t stop grinding together.

“June thinks our family will be better off without me? Well, let’s see how they manage without me to pick up after them, to fix everything that’s broken.” His voice was almost too rapid to be coherent, a chaotic rush of bitterness spilling out.

As he stormed down the front hall, his foot caught on one of the kids’ toys. The brightly colored plastic tumbled across the floor, playing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” in a maddening loop.

“Ah! Jesus Christ!” Warren hollered, kicking the toy as hard as he could. The cheery melody seemed to mock him as it rolled away.

Reaching the front door, Warren paused, his grip tightening on the bag. He scanned the room one last time, his vision blurred by a haze of fury and resentment. “F*ck you, June,” he spat, the words dripping with the finality of his decision. With one swift motion, he slammed the door, shutting out his family and the years of heartache they had shared.

As he sped out of the driveway, Warren’s mind spiraled, weaving dark fantasies about what would be said about him the next day. “I should’ve been more helpful around the house,” June would sob, her voice choked with regret. “I should have believed him,” Brian would cry, guilt etched into his face. “I’m sorry I didn’t mind my own fucking business,” Bree would whisper to June, her eyes downcast.

He scoffed, dismissing the imagined apology. Even he knew Bree wouldn’t be sad about his leaving. She’d never cared enough to mourn.

He had regrets about Heather and Brenden, but felt vindicated when he considered that some day they’d come to understand their mother was the problem. A smirk formed on his ragged face, feeling satisfaction from imagining them turning their backs on June. 

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