Mary Stanley

*Content Warning: Mentions of Domestic Abuse*

Her keys twinkled as she locked the front door behind her. The inside of the house was all dark save for the metallic television glow that seeped out of the doorway of the lounge room. She hung her bag on the wall and walked down the hallway.

Something caught her foot and she stumbled, heels clattering against the floorboards. His work boots. Kicked off and strewn across the width of the corridor.

She inched closer to the lounge room. Peering in, she saw him sprawled on the lumpy lounge. His head rested against the rounded arm, mouth wide open. Vibrant colours flashed across his sleeping face. Commentators, cheers, whistles blared from the television.

Three empty beer bottles stood by his blistered feet. A fourth bottle leaned against his groin. The brown smell of stale beer bubbled in the air. She stepped into the lounge room and searched for the remote, finding it wedged between the cushions. She switched off the television, cutting off a shrill try whistle.

The abrupt silence roused him. With a groan, he hunched forward and rubbed the exhaustion from his face. He yawned and cracked his

neck.
What time is it?

About ten, she replied.
You’re back late, he scoffed.
I had to help my boss with some files. Bullshit.
He needed to wrap things up.

For a moment he was quiet. Goosebumps pinched her skin. She bent down and wrapped her fingers around the neck of a beer bottle on the floor.

What did you have for dinner?
You weren’t home to make anything.
There were leftovers in the fridge.
I didn’t want the fucking leftovers.
You could’ve made something, she mumbled.

He snapped forward and snatched her by the wrist. The beer bottle clinked against the floor and rolled to the bottom of the lounge. His thumb dug into her fluttering pulse.

A breath fell out between her teeth. The wet slap of his tongue unsticking from the roof of his mouth broke the silence. He threw away her wrist and staggered up off the couch. She gathered up the bottles and threw them in the kitchen bin.

~

She woke up early the following day. Saturday began with the laundry. His work clothes from earlier in the week were caked with dust and dirt. She soaked them before putting them through the wash. Once the machine started to churn, she returned to the kitchen and made him coffee and toast.

Dressed in yesterday’s work clothes, he came downstairs after ten and complained that the coffee was cold and the toast stale. She flicked on the kettle.

Where are you going?

Got called in for a job out west, he answered. I won’t be home until late.

What kind of job? It’s Saturday, she said.
Just a job, he countered. Do you have to know everything? I was just asking.
Just worry about yourself, alright.
Alright.
The kettle grumbled as it boiled. She opened an overhead cupboard and took down another mug, coffee and sugar containers. There were small rat droppings scattered across the back of the cupboard and a small hole in one corner.

We have a rat somewhere in the house, she said. He scoffed. What do you want me to do about it? I don’t know, get rid of it, maybe?
Just put some poison out, it’ll die on its own.

She spooned coffee and sugar into her mug and put the containers back in the cupboard. Outside, a magpie landed on the clothesline and warbled to the morning. She shut the window on its noise. He cleared his throat and wiped toast crumbs from his mouth.

What took you so long last night? You were really late.

My boss wanted help clearing things out. He’s closing the practice soon and files needed to be sorted.

The kettle started to roar and shake, steam buffeting from its spout. She tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear and folded her arms across her chest. Her fingernails left slight crescents in her bare flesh.

You’ve been staying back with him a lot. You’ve been coming back late from work too.

The kettle chimed and settled to a gentle hum. She picked it up and poured the steaming water into her mug. The aroma of coffee warmed the air. He got up from the kitchen island and dropped his dishes into the sink with a clatter. She opened the fridge, and took out the milk.

He stood beside the kitchen island for a second, watching her. The crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes and the creases across the bridge of his nose scrunched together until he looked more like a mask than a person. His mouth opened then closed, pursing shut. She turned away from him and poured milk into her coffee.

His heavy footfalls carried him from the kitchen and out the front door. Outside, his van beeped as it was unlocked. A cough came from the engine before the van rumbled away from the house. She stirred her coffee until it turned pale, spoon clinking against the ceramic.

The washing machine ended its cycle just before noon. Opening the machine’s lid, she scooped out the sopping clothes and piled them into the plastic basket by her feet. She heaved the basket up, propped it against her hip, and headed to the backdoor.

As she nudged open the door, something scratched her bare toes. She gasped and dropped the basket. Plastic slapped against the tiles and clothes spilled out.

Shit.

She crouched down and threw the clothes back into the basket. In the opposite corner of the laundry, a little house rat groomed its pointed face. After a moment, she gathered up the basket and left it on the counter. The rat scurried around the door frame and disappeared into the kitchen. Hand on her hip, she looked around the laundry.

There’s poison somewhere in here, she said and opened the cupboards under the sink.

Bleach and detergent bottles stood together in regimented rows. Brown water stains lined the white piping. She rummaged through the boxes at the back of the cupboard. The hair-thin legs of a dead cockroach grazed her palm and she snatched her hand back, shaking the disgusting tingle off her skin. She got to her feet and knocked the cupboard door shut with her knee.

Wiping her palm against her jeans, she headed into the kitchen. She searched the cupboards there and found one half-empty box of green poison pellets. A quiet crunching sound came from her left.

She looked up and found the rat sitting by the loaf of bread left out from the morning. It had chewed a hole in the plastic wrapping and ripped off a stale corner from one slice. Crumbs pattered down onto the countertop from its pointed mouth.

When she got up, the rat stopped chewing. Its whiskers flicked up, nose wrinkling. The bread dropped from its paws and it bolted around the sink out of sight.

~

He came home after lunch on Sunday. She stacked her plate and cutlery in the dishwasher. He gave no greeting as he strutted into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a beer.

Was wondering if you were coming home, she said. How was work?

It was alright. Might have to head back there again next weekend, he replied.

His clothes were dishevelled, though still clean, as if he were in a rush to put them back on. There was a perfume in the air, on his clothes. It wasn’t one of hers.

You stink, she said.

One of the blokes gave me some deodorant before I left, his voice faltered in the middle of his sentence.

It’s a woman’s perfume. I was going to buy that one, remember? I didn’t ‘cause you said it stank like shit.

He twisted the cap off the beer and hurried away from her, through the archway between the kitchen and lounge room. She followed him, reaching out and clutching the back on the leather couch. Her knuckles turned white.

You didn’t go to work. Don’t—
Not this again.
Why are you lying to me?
I’m not fucking lying. I went to work.
Where? Where did you go to work? I want to— It’s not your business. Back off.

It’s almost one. You left at ten-thirty yesterday and you’re back now, at one o’clock in the afternoon smelling like the fucking botanic gardens. Where did you go?

Just fuck off, leave me alone.

He raised his hand in a dismissive wave and she flinched under the gesture. Sipping from his beer, he moved toward the stairs in the corridor. Taking in a breath, she stepped in front of him.

Tell me where you went. I’m not letting this— Fuck. Off.

He swung his arm out and pushed her out of his way. The shove knocked her into the doorframe, her spine jarring against the wooden edge. A whine slipped from her mouth as she straightened up.

Prickling static numbed her muscles, dripped down through her bones.

Worry softened the taut pull in his brow. He looked her over then walked up the stairs without glancing back.

~

She carried her dirty clothes into the laundry, throwing them into the basket to be washed. In her periphery, a flash of brown fur and a cable grey tail. The rat skittered into the cupboards to hide.

She left the laundry and went into the kitchen for the new loaf of bread she had bought. Taking out a soft slice, she tore it into tiny pieces. She returned to the laundry and left bits of bread in the corner of the counter. The rest of the bread was tucked into the pocket of her cardigan.

It was after she started ironing that the rat poked its head out. She watched it run across the back of the counter to nibble on the bread. After a few minutes, the bread bits were gone.

She put aside the iron and approached the counter. The rat’s whiskers twitched but it remained still. She saw her reflection, an alien distortion, in its black eyes. Reaching into her pocket, she took out another piece of bread and, careful not to spook the rat, unfurled her hand.

The rat pressed itself up against the wall and breathed hard, its stomach rapidly shrinking and expanding. She moved in closer and held out the bread. The rat sniffed the air and looked to her encroaching fingers.

With bullet speed, it jumped forward and clamped its teeth around the first knuckle of her index finger. She hissed and shook her hand free of the rat’s grip. The vermin squeaked as it smacked against the counter. It recovered with a jump and escaped into the cupboards.

She examined her aching finger. A pulse thumped under the shining red marks on either side of her knuckle. Turning on the tap, she washed away the blood as it started to bead from the wounds.

~

Before she went to bed that night, she set up the trap. In the garage, she found a rusted cage with a door that screeched shut. She brought it into the laundry and tucked it into the corner of the counter. Pieces of bread would bait the rat to the poison pellets.

She stood in the doorway of the laundry and waited. The tap dripped. She flicked off the light switch and went to bed, alone.

~

In the morning, she found him sleeping on the couch in his underwear. Guttural snores reverberated from his throat. Curled up on his side, face scrunched against his shoulder.

She tied her dressing gown around her waist and headed to the laundry. Sunshine streamed through the window, gleaming against the small cage on the counter. The trap’s door was shut. Tiles chilled the pads of her feet as she stepped toward the trap. A shiver rolled up her spine.

Dead, the rat lay shrivelled inside the cage. A fly probed the rat’s black eye, its tiny body bloated from internal bleeding. Buzzing, the fly hopped from the rat’s eye and nudged open its mouth to crawl inside.

She wrapped her hand around the cage’s handle and dragged it off the counter. It swung in the air, the dead rat smacking against the bars. She held it away from herself and turned around.

He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes were swollen from uncomfortable sleep.

You caught it?
Yeah. It’s dead, she said. It’s almost eight-thirty, you’re going to be

late.
I know. It’s—It’s alright, he replied. The boss said he’d let me off

early today. I’ll be home for dinner. Okay.

Look, I didn’t—I’m—
What?
He licked his lips and gave a slight shrug. His eyes fell to the tiles. You’re always sorry like it’s the first time you’ve done it.

She pushed past him and headed outside to dispose of the rat. The cage trap creaked as it rocked in tandem with her movements.

~

He hadn’t lied this time. At six-thirty, the door shuddered open and his work boots thumped against the floorboards. She stirred out the misshapen lumps in the sauce she was cooking. The lumps didn’t dissolve completely, but he wouldn’t notice, he’d mistake them for mince. She poured the sauce into the pasta pot and mixed it together.

He came up beside her and kissed her cheek before she could turn her head.

Go sit down, I’ll bring it over, she said.

With a sigh, he left the kitchen. She spooned pasta onto a new plate for him. There was plain pasta bundled on another plate, one she put aside for herself earlier. She carried the plates into the dining room.

He sat at the head of the long table, drinking the beer she set out

for him. She put the plates down on the place mats and took her seat. He gestured at her plate with his beer bottle.

You’re not having it with sauce?

No, don’t feel like it, she replied and poured herself a glass of wine.

They tucked in their chairs and twirled pasta onto their forks. She watched his brows furrow on the first taste. He continued to eat.

By the time he was done, he struggled to swallow and clamped a hand around his throat. Wheezing breaths came from his mouth. He took a swig of beer.

Are you okay?
I—can’t breathe.
What’s wrong?
Don’t know. I can’t...
He filled his mouth with beer and couldn’t swallow it. Coughing,

the beer burst from his mouth and dribbled down his chin. A thin line of blood trickled from his nostril. He pushed himself up from the table and ran to the laundry.

Vomit splattered against the steel sink. He gasped for air and let out an agonising groan. There was a great clamour as he fell to the floor.

Shaking, she brought her glass up to have a sip. The edge clinked on her teeth and wine splashed her mouth and nostrils. He called for her. She wiped the wine stain from her skin and listened to his waning groans.