I Wonder

I’m always thinking about stories, always adding to the never ending lists of ones to write someday. A few years ago I had a conversation with the very creative and fabulous Stan Notte and Theresa Cunningham and I said I thought I had a great opening line for a story – ‘I wonder would he know what hit him if I hit him in the back of the head with a hammer‘. Of course I got two funny looks and T was concerned about Mr C’s welfare but the idea of intrusive thoughts had been playing on my mind and I’d read about a wife who’d taken one too far. It was agreed it was a hook but I didn’t take it any further until this summer when I finally got around to it.

Below is I wonder – the product of a fascination with intrusive thoughts.

(No husbands were harmed in the writing of this story)

I Wonder

I wonder would he know what hit him?   Would he make a funny noise?  Would he turn to look at me? Or would everything just go black and that would be that? An end to the incessant ‘get me this’ ‘get me that’ ‘Not that one woman, the other one.’  An end to the endless jobs, the lists, the ‘you can’t do it this way, you should do it my way’.  An end to the constant comparisons to his bloody mother, the gobbling down of dinners not quite up to her standards, the house not cleaned like her’s.  An end to the constant dull throb in my brain, the type of pulsing pain you learn to live with and endure, the type that sucks the life out of you and destroys the dreams you thought you’d achieve.  I wonder would he know what hit him?

He shouts again and I catch myself standing above him, hammer in hand, dangling it precariously above his dark unknowing head.  The handle is rubber, grip friendly, slip resistant, it’s a dark blue with an unusual pattern of dots and ovals, better for the grip; supposedly. A gift for Christmas last year, how ironic that would be; killed with kindness.  I could do it now, just casually drop it and hope for the best.  I mean it would be a complete accident…  The joys and dangers of DIY.  They always warn you about them,  about the dangers.  I’ve googled the details and the numbers, more than seventy people die in the UK each year from DIY related incidents.  No solid numbers for Ireland, but I’m certain it would be something similar.  We can’t be more safety concerned, if anything it’s probably bigger.  I’ve seen the dangling on ladders to fix tiles, put up Christmas lights, I’ve seen the dodgy wiring, the hap hazard scaffolding – we definitely are more accident prone than the Brits.

It’s making it look like an accident is always the most puzzling thing, as is of course getting it right.  The last thing I want to do is a shoddy job and end up having to look after him, Jesus that would be worse than this.

I wonder what it would sound like?  Would there be a sickening crack maybe or a muted thud?  I wonder about the blood, would it spray out violently, vivid red, catching my face, staining my blonde hair and clothes, a right old mess?  Or would there even be blood?  Maybe he would just slump forward, a dent in that thick head of his and all the drama and turmoil would be contained within his skull.  That would be neater to be fair, make the clean up and set up much easier and less gory for me for sure.  But the chances are this fellow would go full on mess, horror movie scene.

He calls me again for the hammer and looks up at me, his eyes irritated but still that ocean blue, the blue you could get lost in, carried away to some Mediterranean island on, sun warm on your skin, his hand strong and manly in yours…

‘Jesus, Mary, can I have the hammer?  Are ya alright?’

Concern sweeps across the turquoise water, rippling the daydream and reality flushes red across my cheeks, caught in the act!

‘I’m grand. Why?’

‘You’re away with the birds more like.  We’re nearly done here I promise.  We’ll finish this section and then we call it a day.  Takeaway maybe then?’

I turn to face the work done over the past four hours.  Mike has precisely and lovingly hung Victorian style panelling on the walls of our new bungalow.  A feature he had not planned for, but one I had begged for, pleaded for nightly for a fortnight, littered the mobile home in the yard with moodboards, interior magazines for.  All strategically placed to ensure he was bombarded and wouldn’t say no. I won out in the end, I always do and even before the second fix has begun I have my panelled hallway and it’s beginning to all come together.  I’m spoilt, I know that, I get everything I want regardless of the price or hard work it causes. 

I hand him the hammer, we hold it between us for a moment, he has the metal head and I hold the rubber end tightly in my grip.  His eyes search my face with concern.  He has a heart of gold really, I don’t know where these thoughts come from I’d be lost without him.  He is my everything.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?  Sometimes I worry about you.  I look up when I’m working and you have this murderous look about you, like you’re plotting my demise!’

He laughs heartily and stands to face me and kisses me softly.  He drops the hammer to the floor with a dull thud and I smirk at the sound of it.  I’m not mad you know, I’ve looked it up; lots of people think like this, have thoughts like mine.  It’s actually quite normal.  Intrusive thoughts – they’re a real thing (Thank God), it’s quite common.  It’s mostly mad thoughts like throwing yourself off the bridge you’re crossing, pushing the nerdy guy with the earphones off the platform at the train station, doing strange, unmentionable things with your boss at the monthly Zoom meeting.  You’ve no control over them, they just happen and they mean nothing… I swear! 

But if I do ever go through it, I guess he wouldn’t know what hit him.

Happy Culture Night

I hope you enjoyed!

T xx