Just a Bad Day

Heave, heave, heave—

I throw the covers back, feet landing in a sprint across the room. It’s dark, but I can just make out the shape of my dog. My hands land on either side of his body as he lets the contents of his stomach out onto the white carpet. The tiled bathroom floor is four, maybe five steps away. The scent of dog vomit stings my nostrils. 

“Mama?”

The clock reads 5:15. 

“Go back to sleep, honey. Cheddar just threw up but it’s still nighttime.”

I’m frozen. Cheddar looks up at me with wide eyes.

“I’m not tired. I want to get up!”

I open the window, kick out the screen, pick Cheddar up, and toss him out. His body wiggles and turns in the air as he falls. Fucking dog. Vomited on the carpet. Woke up my kid.

I sigh out my nose and give Cheddar a quick pet. “You feeling bad, buddy? Sorry your tummy was upset.” I move him back to his dog bed and clean up his mess. 

Downstairs, my husband and son are at the kitchen table eating cereal. My daughter trails behind me on the stairs as I carry Cheddar’s vomit-covered paper towels in a plastic bag. 

“Daddy! Henry! Cheddar threw up!” 

My husband looks at me, the bag, and then Cheddar, who is now curled in his kitchen dog bed. 

“He threw up?” my husband asks.

Are those the words you just heard? Do you think I’m just carrying a plastic bag full of dog vomit for fun? 

“Yep. Dinner probably just didn’t sit well with him last night. How long have you guys been up?” 

I deposit the plastic bag just outside the front door and wash my hands.

“Since about 5:30. Did Cheddar wake Zoey up?”

“Oh yeah. There was no hope after that.”

Henry and Zoey run into the living room to pet Cheddar. 

I lower my voice. “I can’t keep doing this, Ethan. Zoey in our bed, you in Henry’s bed. We haven’t slept well in weeks. Zoey was kicking me all night.” 

Ethan links his fingers behind his head. My face is a foot from his armpit. He stinks. 

I roughly grip his forearms and pull them down so they’re plastered to his side. “You fucking smell, keep your arms down.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure what to do. They’re twins, you’d think they’d be able to comfort each other at night. They share a room for fuck’s sake.” My husband is tired and annoyed.

“Why don’t you go take a shower? I’ll get Zoey fed and turn on a show for them.” I touch his shoulder and he puts his arms down reflexively. 

The twins argue in the car the entire way to preschool. Henry wants to listen to that Spidey kids show soundtrack. Zoey wants to listen to Take Down from Demon Hunters. We listen to both, but Henry screams the entire way through Zoey’s song out of spite and Zoey melts down crying. 

We say our goodbyes at drop-off, my children running in with bright smiles on their faces, and I get back in my car. 

Clunk.

The silence is absolute. I close my eyes. 

My fist pounds the driver-side glass over and over and over until it shatters. There’s glass everywhere and blood bubbles and dribbles down my hand.

I turn the car on and put on a podcast. 

At work, I barely have time to set my bag down before my meeting starts. Halfway through, my eyelids feel heavy. My coworker is droning on and on about how to improve our data analytics. He’s unmarried. No kids. He’s always at his desk before me and still there when I leave. My screen reads 9:37. I haven’t had coffee yet. 

“Grace? Earth to Grace!”

A hand waves in my face and I see the small crowd of people around the table staring at me. 

“Sorry! Just zoned out a bit there. I’m tired this morning. What was the question?”

My coworker again: “And here I was thinking you were late today because you’d slept in.” An awkward chuckle ripples around the table. He cracks his knuckles.

I close my laptop. The cool edges cut into my palms. I swing it across the right side of his face. I bash it over the top of his head. He’s disoriented, and his head leans toward the table, providing the perfect angle to slam it down. His nose cracks and blood drips over the edge onto his leather shoes. 

“Can you repeat the question?”

I finally have a coffee in hand at lunch. I take my walk, the same trees and buildings passing by as yesterday. The same ones as tomorrow. I compile a mental list of groceries, pull out my phone and make doctor appointments for the twins. I research new deodorants for my husband. A notification pops up reminding me that the yoga class I signed up for last week is tonight. Ethan will have to pick up the twins. I text him a reminder.

It’s 4:30 when I pack up my computer. I haven’t gottten that report done, but I’ll finish after my yoga class. My coworker smirks at me as I pass his desk. He probably thinks it’s a smile.

At home, I change into yoga pants, a t-shirt, and tennis shoes. I find Ethan in our home office. 

“Hey. Don’t forget to pick up the twins.”

His glasses reflect blue from his screen. “What? I thought you were getting them?”

“I have that yoga class. I texted you at lunch that you needed to pick them up tonight.”

“Oh. I didn’t see that.” He frowns at his phone as he taps it. “Okay.” He sighs, his mouth tight. “What’s for dinner?”

How the fuck should I know? Why don’t you decide for once? When’s the last time you made dinner? I rip the phone from his hands and throw it through the window. He makes that stupid surprised face, where his mouth gapes open like fish. 

“I can throw some chicken nuggets in the air fryer.” 

“Thanks, hon. Could you also put out the plates and ketchup? Just so it’s all right there and ready when we get home.” 

Useless, idiot fish.

“Sure! No problem.”

I quicken my steps as I enter the building. I’m a few minutes late and in the very back, my mat crammed in a corner. Every warrior pose bumps my hand against the wall. I can’t fully extend my arms for balance. In corpse pose I can hear my neighbor’s congested breathing.

Exhale, inhale, snort. Exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale. Snort. I wrap the ends of my towel around my hands and hold it over her mouth. She thrashes beneath me. My knees squeeze harder against her arms. Pure terror reveals the whites of her eyes.

I smile at her as I roll up my mat. 

It’s dark as I walk through the park to my car. The street lamps dimly light the tree-lined path. Ahead, I see a hooded figure beside my car. I slow, pulling out my keys and positioning them tightly between my fingers. There’s no one around, the other cars nearby are dark. I hear the splatter of liquid, then see a small stream flowing on the street between the figure’s legs. He’s peeing. His arm is casually leaned on my car. 

He finishes, and I’m still standing several feet away. 

“Oh sorry, was this your car?” he asks, noticing me. 

“Yeah.” The metal of the keys bites into the soft flesh of my fingers. 

"My bad.” He’s drunk. He stumbles along the path away from me.

Pinpricks explode along my chest and arms.

I approach my car. The nearest streetlamp illuminates the side to reveal a large wet spot. The thick scent of piss turns my head away. I’m breathing fast. 

My feet carry me along the path behind the man. 

“Hey.”

The man stops and turns. 

“You pissed on my car.” 

“Okay? I had to go.” He laughs. “When nature calls, you know?” He turns to walk away.

“What the hell is wrong with you? You can’t just pee on someone’s car.”

“Well I did.” He walks toward me. He’s close enough that I can smell the alcohol on his breath. His eyes are rimmed red and glassy. “What are you going to do about it?” 

A moment passes. I look down.

“That’s what I thought.” His index finger pokes my shoulder, forcing my left foot back a half step. 

I pick up a branch from the ground. 

There’s a dense, heavy branch in my hands.

I crack it hard across his face, taking him by surprise.

The branch is now in two pieces. The part still in my hand is sharp at the end.  

“What the fuck? You bitch!” 

He lunges at me dumbly and I step back. 

I backhand him with the sharp end of the branch, leaving a streak of red across his cheek.

“What the fuck! I’m bleeding!” He’s cupping his cheek. 

I grip the branch with two hands, bashing him in the ear, on the neck, on the ribs. 

He falls to his knees. My hand stings from the bark rubbing against my sweaty palms. 

“You crazy bitch! It was just a piss!”

I shove my knee hard into his face and hear a snap. He falls backward and stares up at me as blood gushes from his nose. 

I’m standing over him.

I bring the stick down over and over again. 

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

He’s coughing and sputtering blood, his body curved away from me. “I’m sorry! I’m sor–”

Thunk. Thunk.

“I’m sorry! Please stop! Just leave me alone!” 

The rough bark of the branch slips through my fingers and clatters on the ground. 

I back away. The man is still curled on the ground. I hear ragged breaths. They’re mine, not his. Is he breathing? Yes, I see him breathing. He’s peeking over his shoulder at me as I quicken my backward steps. 

I’m at my car. My hands are dusted brown and dotted in glossy red. I clean them with wet wipes. There’s a roll of paper towels and bottled water in the back seat. I grab them and walk to the man, who is now sitting up. He flinches as I approach. 

“Here.” 

His hood is off and his face is bloody. He eyes me. 

“I’m sorry.” 

What did I just do?

“I’m not a violent person.”

I just had a bad day.