domestic quarrel

copyright ©1999,2019 arden henderson

Through the haze of pain and blood running in his eyes, he vaguely wondered if she would go for the spine. Maybe one of the cervical vertebra. She could go for the whole package, maybe shatter him at C4 just so as to not kill but pack him into a ventilator life. Or C5 with various incapacities, or C8 practically guaranteeing quadriplegia at any rate. , “Had enough?” she taunted. Her smile was ever so wickedly good which thrilled him in spite of himself. Such was their passion. Suddenly her voice changed and her face softened. “Please don’t leave. You know I need you,” she cooed and kicked sharply, catching him the left arm. He was sure she almost broke it, the blow spinning him around. He managed to dodge out of range. She advanced.

He continued his side thoughts even as he repositioned. Maybe she’d punch through to his chest, shattering thoracic vertebra on the other side. Of course, that’d be the least of his worries if she executed such a blow since she would surely withdraw her arm, ripping out his heart with one smooth motion, and eat it in front of him, smiling slyly all through it. He hated it when that happened.

“Oh come on,” she chided, launching a flurry of fist strikes. He managed to block most of them and he stepped back.

Or she could skip such acrobats and simply break his lower back with the appropriate blow or twist, probably when he least expected it, shattering the lumbar vertebra like matchsticks, rendering him immobile from the waist down.

These thoughts lazily wandered through his mind as he fought for clarity and focus. His vision was distorted. His right eye seemed to be completely shut now. He hoped it was still intact. Even now he was having a difficult standing. He was sure she had at least broken his left knee cap. The leg was stiffening and swelling with white-hot pain, slowing him down, the pain fighting for attention with the rest of his damage.

He was breathing hard. Thank Heavens he hadn’t choked on any teeth. He felt his side gingerly, trying to concentrate. At least two ribs were shattered. He wondered fuzzily if a lung was punctured. Probably the reason his breathing came so hard. He speculated there could be internal bleeding. He hoped not.

As they stood warily watching each other, he noticed she was preparing for her final blow. It was recognizable and predictable. Sweat and blood ran down his face. His vision was blurry but he could still see her. Maybe she would do a simple efficient hit. Another blow to the head, properly executed, and he would be done. Maybe square in the face.

Maybe this time she would ram the broken nose fragments up into his brain with a sharp open-palm blow. His vision would go out nanoseconds before a wall of pain crashed on him and he toppled over, senseless and finished, like a pitiful sack of flour.

That wouldn’t do. It wasn’t going to happen this time because, in a dash of clarity which rendered realtime into slow motion, he saw her pivot and lash out with another kick. So it was a kick this time.

Clearly his spleen and who knew what else would be hamburger if she connected, and the internal injuries would mean assured “bleeding out” internally and a slow painful ending in the sweat-splattered dirt below him.

Yet, the blow would not connect today. Instead, he turned on his toes, and her kick locked right up into his arms. The final position was almost a cozy cradling of her leg. Fondness, almost.

She gasped as her deadly blow ended pointlessly and silently in his two-arm lockup. There was no satisfying connect, no rupturing of internal organs from a foot arcing through space at 90-mph to hit soft tissue, perhaps even shattering two or three ribs with the upwards follow-through as a nice after effect. She hopped on her free foot two simple steps to steady herself. Bummers.

They froze into position. He shifted his weight slightly, feeling faint. She twisted her head rapidly to look back and their eyes stared into each other. Sharp and cold.

With one decisive move, he jerked and angled down with precise two-arm leverage, snapping both her tibia and fibula in one quick move. They were spectacularly clean breaks and her lower leg adopted that nauseating floppy style as he released her and stepped back rapidly, watching.

Groaning, she toppled into the dust, shocked almost senseless by the incredible tidal wave of pain now blazing up her leg and into her system. Her world spun. Landing in the dirt only added unfathomable pain on top the horrific signals her leg was sending her now. She felt like throwing up and fought back the nausea.

She looked up and he was circling her, a tall dark silhouette in the sun-painted afternoon orange heat. At best, she could block a punch or a kick the first time, if she didn’t faint beforehand. It was obvious the conclusion that loomed ahead. Through her sea of misery and pain, she wondered where the second kick would land.

He stood in prepared stance, his body kicking in all the chemicals it needed to stay alert. Just because she was down meant nothing. There was still extreme danger. Her hair was plastered over her eyes, sweat running off. He couldn’t see her eyes. This worried him.

He knew she was watching him. She was breathing hard, clearing trying to focus. Her shattered leg stretched out in front of her with a horrific impossible angle. Her hands were shaking even as she clenched them in preparation.

He contemplated his next move. There were several easy, efficient blows that would end the entire adventure. This was an unexpected yet happy turn of events. His mind, as if in a background task, casually ran down the list of options.

With a sigh, he relaxed out of the stance and stood with a small silly grin on his face. She looked up, and smiled herself. She loved that smile. He offered his hand and she took it. Their hands clasped warmly.

Then he heard her leg bones click back into place. Her impossibly crooked leg suddenly snapped back straight ominously. Her leg was good as new, probably better than before.

He attempted to release her hand, attempted to straighten up, back out, reposition, prepare a defense, get prepared, but her grip was suddenly steel-cold. His hand was trapped. Her smile broadened. He felt her apply pressure. In a blink his hand would be crushed, useless. This was not good.

He struggled. He knew it was just microseconds before she would pivot on the ground, swinging both legs with deadly speed to knock his feet out from under him. He had seen this move before.

With any luck, he would only be knocked onto the ground. His ankles merely broken but feet still attached. After that, with him off-balance and plowing into the ground on his back, she would simply strike down with a rock-hard fist and shatter his windpipe. He knew all this with instant, hideous clarity.

In those frozen moments as she twisted, angling for the blow, as her grip of steel held him, he looked down into her face, at her beautiful smile. He concentrated. He focused.

Suddenly his breath came back to him as ribs snapped back into place and the collapsed lung inflated. His damaged eye rotated and locked back into place, same as it had been before. The various bruises and shattered areas were coming back online.

Her dark eyes widened as his grip tightened on hers, splintering bones in her hand like toothpicks. Her smile twisted into lips pulling back, revealing white razor-sharp teeth. Her eyes glowed.

He heard her howl of anger as he released her grip and backflipped three sharp flips. He stood there as she gathered herself into a white hot rage charging at him with stunning speed. But it was too late. He simply stepped out of the circle. He walked out of the loop. She hit the edge and screamed at him. This was as far as she could go. It was protocol. Simple as that. He was out.

She fumed and spewed incantations as he walked away, spinning around slowly, walking slowly. She scraped sharp nails against the invisible barrier, her raven hair floating around her with the static electricity and bolts of lightning that arced all around her causing the dust to explode into clouds of despair.

He smirked back, pacing outside the circle, enjoying the moment, and did not see the threat hurtling from behind. The sickening blow pivoted him into air, to the tune of wicked laughter all around him. He tumbled to the ground.

He realized dimly as he tried to stand that he was back in the circle and she was advancing again. The outside blow had knocked him back in. How did she do that? He was out, now he was in? Her influence was thrillingly, madly intriguing. He smiled to himself, through his tears. She thrilled him. She was a fiesty one, a fiery one, this one.

But here he was, in big trouble. Back in the circle. There was no way he could stand. His legs were both broken. She stood before him again, her hair lifting and floating around her face from the sheer energy. This would be quick, he realized. Her eyes were dark, deep. Forever he would fall into those eyes. Her smile was maddening. His eyes glowed. Not looking good. Not looking good at all.

Suddenly there was the chiming of a cellphone. Both of them looked around. Checking. It was hers. It was work. She had to go. She was on-call.

“Oh look at you,” she said, dusting off her hands, brushing strands of hair out of her face, stepping over to him. “I can’t take you anywhere. You are so so silly. What a mess. I thought you had some smooth moves.” She laughed and it warmed his heart.

“I dunno, you tell me,” he said, rubbing his face, “I used to have some smooth moves, some time back then, I dunno. You thought so, anyway.” He winked at her with a sly smirk.

She smiled and offered her hand. He took it and she pulled him up, his broken legs snapping back into place, good as new. She twisted and stretched, her shattered bones popping back into place, damage repaired. They stood there, dusty, sweaty, weary, smiling at each other with big smiles.

“Well, you did have some good surprise moves,” she admitted and hugged him. He embraced her, burying his face in her hair.

But duty called. They separated. It would only be for awhile.

“So, okay, I’ll be back home around seven, I’m sure the meeting won’t be that long. Should I bring home a pizza?” she asked, brushing dust off her clothes and running her nails through her tousled hair. She produced a mirror and began touch-ups.

“Well, we have those leftovers. But I don’t think there’ll be enough,” he said, adjusting his tie. “And the kids would like pizza so two big larges, maybe an extra medium. Oh that reminds me, gotta pick up some formula.” “And don’t forget to pick up the suits at the cleaners. We’ve got that party Friday, you know. And the christening on Sunday.”

“Right. Say, I noticed the front left tire was a little low this morning. I think it is time for maintenance anyway. I’ll take care of it.”

“Did you see where I put that folder I brought in last night? Oh, here it is.”

They walked off together, animatedly discussing next week’s family reunion at a nearby state park.

Everyone was looking forward to it.

From the April 28, 1999 weekly blip. When this was written, cellphones were just appearing. Flips and such. Suddenly, people had to answer the call. Probably would, regardless of merit. The importance of the interruption. Still an interruption, nonetheless. Anyways, nothing like landlines. (Which everyone still had.) A landline goes off, one might not even be there. But one was always present with the new-fangled cellphones. Therefore, a new reality for relationships. Whether one wanted it or not.