Diseased Soul

By Andy Hayward All Rights Reserved ©

Romance / Other

Chapter 26

From: Elizabeth.

To:

Date: 07/03/2009 10:42:35

Subject: Stench Free I can’t believe I had to go to such lengths to get you out of my beautiful home. It took six weeks to get you out. Six weeks of alienation! It took a further four weeks to make the place habitable again. On the day I finally got rid of you, the place smelt worse than the acrid stench that wafts up from that old Victorian public convenience in town! You really are a DIRTYFUCKINGLITTLESHIT! Mum was overwhelmed with despair and collapsed to her arthritic knees when she saw the devastation. She understood right away all the damage was entirely your fault. It’s a husband’s duty to love honour and cherish his wife, she said. Only a monster would drive his wife out of her home. Only a beast of man would back his wife into a corner so tight she’d have no alternative to give a little gentle persuasion. A nudge in the right direction. So what if a few of your precious books and your nerdy looking clothes got damaged? It’s your stupid fault you don’t have another copy of your boring thesis not mine! And let’s face it no-one is ever likely to be interested in reading anything you’ve written so it’s better off in tatters than collecting dust and wasting space on my book shelf! From the racket I’ve heard, your CD collection wasn’t worth keeping, so the world has been done favour. The damage to that bike isn’t nearly as bad as you’ve made out. It still looks like a bike, sort of. I hated the damned thing anyhow – the colour, everything about it, in fact – and you only bought it to impress the knickers off me, literary. FILTHYLITTLESHIT. And so what if the kitchen and lounge took a few knocks and scrapes? None of that matters. What’s money? All that mattered was getting you out of my beautiful home and out of my life. It worked, eventually. Finally. There is a God in haven, after all. Thank God for Mum. On the morning you abandoned our marriage she didn’t hesitate to roll up her sleeves and help me clean the flat of your stench. To avoid being contaminated by any your stuff we protected our delicate feminine hands with marigolds. We then busied ourselves collecting your gear – clothes, books, and the other the trash you left behind – and stuffed it into black bags. Thankfully, I was careful about what I allowed you to bring when you moved in. I had a hunch we’d end up splitting. That’s why I refused to let my flat be overridden and spoiled by your dreadful furniture. I knew deep down I’d be left with the arduous task of throwing out your crap someday so there was no point bringing it here in the first place. Your belongings fitted into just four black bags – a small mercy – which we enthusiastically tossed from the balcony into the back yard. We did the same to the two bikes cluttering up my hall. Bits of metal flew in all directions when they smashed on the concrete. Oops. In the afternoon Ali, Vince, Aunty and Uncle joined us at the flat and offered their help. I don’t recall who made the suggestion, but the whole family agreed that to truly rid the flat of your stench it would have to be emptied of everything. It was best to start again. To make certain the job was executed satisfactorily I divided the work force. To Vince and Uncle I issued the labour intensive heavy work. Mum, Ali and Aunty were put on cleaning duties whilst I stood back with a cuppa tea and adopted a supervisory role. My family wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. They’re all-too-familiar with the ordeal you’ve me put through. My expression told them that grabbing and bagging your gear traumatised me to my core and they realised I couldn’t stomach touching anything else touched by your filthy hands. Taking over the work was very kind. I didn’t want to make them feel bad so I just went along with it, stood back and issued orders. And honestly, someone had to make sure the work was done to the right standards.

Like loyal soldiers the men did exactly what I commanded. They smashed-up the old furniture and lobbed it over the balcony, adding to the small mountain of rubbish accumulating in the garden. The pissed-stained living room and bedroom carpets were pulled up and wrestled over balcony too. Between them, Uncle and Vince hauled the busted fridge onto the balcony, where it balanced for moment, precariously. Everyone roared with laughter when it toppled and heard the sound of the highly engineered metal of your bikes being crushed under its bulk. “It’s nothing in comparison with what he’s done to you” Mum reminded me. Couldn’t agree more. Getting rid of your stuff was exciting. It was like having a spring clean, but on a grand scale. With everything you may come into contact with gone, the flat felt clean again. I felt clean for the first time since you moved in. What a relief! Mum took pity on me and agreed to refurbish the flat and replace everything you forced me to rip out. Since our spring clean Mum and I have remodelled the place. The kitchen and bathroom have been re-done. All the rooms have been decorated from top to bottom. New furniture has been bought for my bedroom, the living room. Everything is new. We’ve re-invented, re-imagined the place. It’s had a make-over. It now looks fit to be on the front cover of one those life-style magazines and you’re not here to enjoy it! I bet you’re still camping out your office floor or renting a dingy room somewhere which is where you ought to be. It’s been terrific to watch the flat undergo such an amazing transformation. I’ve reinvented myself too. The wedding money has come in real handy. I couldn’t stand to look at, let alone wear, any and the clothes I wore in your company. They were thick with your odour. So I did what any self-respecting woman would do in the circumstances and binned the lot. I updated my entire wardrobe with clothes from Boutiques Lor shopped. I’ve gone for a more sophisticated look. You’d love it. The tight-t- shirts, baggy combats and pumps have been replaced by clingy little dresses which I flatter with new firm body and new boobs. Yeah that’s right, finally I have the tits I’ve always wanted. They’re to die-for. I’m humbled by the support my friends and family have shown during this crisis. On Christmas day it was my brother’s plastic wife who comforted me and planted the seed in her southern drawl by saying, “I visit my plastic surgeon when I need a lift doll”. She saw my grief. She saw I needed something to take my mind off the pain you’d inflicted. My brother had all the contacts and offered to pay for everything. It’s not like he didn’t owe me and I needed cheering up. So amid the wrangling’s with you I jetted off – first class, at his expense – to the states and returned with first class tits, two cup sizes bigger than before. Result! They look fucking amazing. I get wet just gazing at them in the mirror. Touching them makes my pussy pulsate like never before. It must be the novelty or something. When the surgeon finished working on my tits, he lipo-suctioned away my gankles. It’s about time they went! I now have enviable legs, legs to show of my new collection of very sexy and incredibly expensive shoes, which I bought in the US with his money. I deserved compensating, for what he did, for what you’ve done. On my return to the UK Eric worked his magic, finishing off my new look to perfection, with a new hair-do, a new colour. He’s made me look 10 years younger. What a genius. Every woman should their own little Eric. Even he was blown away with my new pumped-up tits. “They look ravishing darling” he said and insisted groping them there and then in the salon. Of course I let him and of course I enjoyed it. He has great hands. It won’t take me long to a bag proper doctor now, one who earns a proper doctors salary and can afford to treat me like a proper woman. My friends are taking me out tonight to celebrate my new life as a singleton. We’re out clubbing, a fantastic opportunity to test the pulling power of my new look, my new fuller tits and my beautifully sculpted ankles. I’ll have guys eating out the palm of my hand all night and maybe later, one of them will be lucky enough to eating my pussy and you know how delicious that tastes. And whilst my life is on the up and up, yours is in on the down and down. You have no money, no wife, your friends have turned their backs, you have no home to call your own and from what I can make out from your mail you’ll be unemployed too soon. No less than five “Regret to inform you letters” have turned up from universities the country and world over. No one wants you Jon. No-one. You’re SUCHAFUCKINGLOSER! And need I remind you that don’t live here anymore? I am not your secretary. It is not my responsibility to open and deal with your mail. Contact the post office immediately and have your mail redirected to the address you now occupy. If you don’t your mail will be binned. DO NOT GIVE THE LANDLINE NUMBER TO ANYONE AGAIN. The flat is not your home, it never has been. The next time anyone calls for you I shall have no choice but to hang up on them. I will not take messages for you – not personal ones, not work related ones – none. I don’t want your filthy disreputable name being associated with mine or my beautiful home in any way whatever. Got it? You betta have it, otherwise there’ll be trouble. You must remove your junk from the yard. It’s causing a nuisance. If the yard is not cleared by the end of the week Mum will have professionals dispose of it and send you the invoice. We have a formidable solicitor and she will not let you duck, dive and weave out of your responsibilities. YOU’VE BEEN WARNED. And BTW, just so you know…I called the Police and had you arrested. ABUSINGBASTARDS like you often go unpunished. It was a warning…next time I’ll concoct a story that’ll keep you locked away for good. You didn’t even see it coming! Ha! Such a FUCKINGLOSER! Not so bright after all are you Skinner?
From:
To: Elizabeth.
Date: 09/03/2009 18:26:52
Subject: Baffled Wow! I’m astonished…I’m almost too afraid to reply... Evidently, there are gaping holes in my understanding of the events that have taken place over the last ten weeks. A quick recapitulation might serve to fill them. Where to start? Off the bat of receiving the wrong watch, you became disproportionately upset. I went for a walk to cool-off. By the time I returned you’d disappeared without a trace into the ether, from my point of view. On Christmas day, our separation, of which I had no knowledge, was announced to friends, family, colleagues and your ‘Facebook public’. A crazy story about me being a bully was fabricated to justify it. On Boxing Day, upon the advice of a woman you despise, you jetted off to the States to have a boob job and a bonus gankleplasty: all at the expense of a brother who spent his formative years sexual abusing and torturing his little sister, his restitution now paid for in full. Presumably then, the messages I left on your phone, the emails and text messages I sent, all went unanswered because you were in the sates recovering from surgery rather than camping out at your mothers, as I suspected. Should I find comfort in knowing I wasn’t being ignored? Two weeks later you announced your return to the UK by embarking on a campaign to drive me out of our marital home. It began by deleting our entire library of photographs and ended by trashing the flat, destroying my books, clothes, and the very expensive bike I bought you as a gift. It was only then I realised that my wife had no interest in re-building our marriage. I packed a bag, stuffed it with the only unspoiled work clothes I could find, and for a week slept on my office floor, until I found a more suitable place to live, safely out of your reach. There, I had the first uninterrupted night’s sleep since you told about being pregnant. Back to that recurring dream I told you about. The haze has finally lifted from the woman’s face. It was you all along. Your pregnancy was the cue which caused the nightmare of the boy on the beach to be played and replayed in my mind, but it had nothing to do with parenthood per se. The dream seems to have been a metaphor for the way you treat me. Or at least that’s one interpretation. Now that our marriage is the dead in water, the nightmare has stopped. A little respite. One problem solved. On the very same day I left the flat, you began to erase any trace that I had shared your life, by destroying my belongings. Somehow, your mother was taken in by your need to cut me out of your life and she agreed to rectify the damage you caused by paying to refurbish and refurnish your flat. How many thousands of pounds did you convince her to spend? I wonder... If all that wasn’t enough, my wife twisted then turned the knife more times than a wife really should by taking delight in having me arrested for no justifiable reason, by informing me about her plans to bag a proper doctor; about going clubbing – out on the pull – with her mates and by gloating about my rejection letters. Have I missed anything? Are you really the type of person who finds happiness in the misery of others? You’re a joy thief, just like mother. I married a woman just like mother. Freud, thrilled, must be performing a Folkloretänze in his grave right about now. Oedipus complex confirmed. On top of all that nonsense, there’s been a new development…My boss called me into his office unusually early this morning. I dread having meetings with him. He’s very much the archetypical academic: great with numbers and theory, lousy with people, a borderline Asperger’s. A meeting with him was the last thing I needed. I arrived at his office at 8am and not a minute later, as instructed, and gave two knocks on his door, not one less or one more, as instructed, albeit tentatively, and waited for his command “Come!”, to enter. I went in with trepidation, looking at my feet as I did so. When I looked up, I found myself in the esteemed company of, in descending order of importance: The Dean of the Faculty; the Head of School and my boss. The research I’d been working on was not sufficiently important to warrant the attention of anyone beyond the lab so I knew something was amiss immediately. Perspiration instantaneously welled in the small of back, my heart pounded. “Take a seat, Skinner” the dean said authoritatively. “I prefer standing”, I replied. “As you wish. Let me begin. Allegations have made against you, very serious allegations…” “Oh” I offered quizzically before the dean had the chance to finish “Yes, Skinner, the allegations are very serious indeed. Suspicion has been raised about authenticity of your data. What do have to say for yourself?” “What exactly are you trying to say?” “Now Skinner boy, no need to go on the offensive, you’re among friends”, an assertion I had time to doubt in the brief second he paused to collect his thoughts. He continued “A long serving and trusted member of staff has approached me, in confidence, and alleged that you’ve been falsifying data for the entirety of your academic career!” I remained silent. My eyes darted around the room feverishly, turning first to the potted and poorly maintained cacti sitting on the sill, then to the picture of mountains framed by the window, to the equations scribbled, barely legible on the white board, then to the book shelf filled end to end and from floor to ceiling with a collection of highly respected Journals, some of which I had been published; another mocking crowd. Finally, my eyes settled on the faces of my judges and jurors: the small but select assembly of academics. I opened my mouth to speak. It was dry. In preparedness to mount a defence I made a fist with my right hand, brought it to my mouth and coughed to clear my throat. I had wanted to make my points clearly, without hesitation, but words failed me. The implications of the allegations had rendered me shell-shocked, impotent. That silence, that cough and that pause were sufficient to raise suspicion of guilt where there was none. The remainder of the meeting largely washed over me. I urged my esteemed colleagues to assess my data statistically. I insisted that all my data, old and new – to which I would offer free access – would conform to Benford’s Law. If only they’d examine it. They just had to look at the distribution of first digits. They’d see that the number 1 occurred as the first digit on thirty percent of occasions, as predicted by that law. My pleas to take a scientific approach were ignored. The allegations cast doubt on my ethics, the dean said, and for that reason Metro would neither be renewing my contract nor supporting my career further by providing references. My career then, is now as dead our marriage. Please tell me you had nothing to do with this…please…You’ve taken too much already. Please tell me that you haven’t taken my career too…
From: Elizabeth.
To:
Date: 10/03/2009 20:02:10
Subject: Just Deserts Ha! It sounds like you got exactly what you had coming to you. Once a cheat, always a cheat. You’re an evil man and have no conscience about using whatever means necessary to make progress. You cheated on your crummy school project. It was obvious you faked the data of your undergraduate project. There’s no way you could’ve earned that trifling prize on merit. Cheating stole from Susan. From what the other PhD’s around the lab have said, data published in your thesis was too neat, too theoretically provocative to reflect real lab experiments. Come on. There’s no hiding it. You faked the lot. No two ways about it. Same applies to your recent work. No-one and I mean NO-ONE in their right mind is capable of running three experiments a day like you do. No. No way. It’s impossible. If I can’t run more than one a day, with my level of expertise, you certainly can’t. You’re not a patch on me. My guess is that you run one experiment, hide in the lab for a while – read, wank yourself off, whatever, who cares right? –and fake the data for the other two. Pffff! Once a cheat always a cheat, that’s what I say. You’ve emotionally abused me. You’ve bullied me. It’s no surprise that you’ve cheated in other areas of life too. The condoms I found in your work satchel prove that you’ve had affair. Whatever, I don’t care. I’m just glad you’re out of my life for good. You’re no longer the light of my life. You’ve left me in darkness but at least I’ve left you with nothing, not even that ridiculous career you keep harping on about. FUCKINGLOSER! Thank God I’m done with you. Once I’ve recovered from the emotional damage you’ve inflicted I’ll find myself an honest, decent, hard-working man who’ll look after me and bathe me in the light I deserve.
From:
To: Elizabeth.
Date: 11/03/2009 06:12:02
Subject: RE: Just Deserts My goodness…Beth you need help, for your own good. Where’s your sense of fair play, knowledge of right from wrong? Where’s your morality? Your behaviour isn’t immoral, it’s amoral! That’s very dangerous. I’m gobsmacked…speechless...I’ll be waiting for the divorce papers.
From: Elizabeth.
To:
Date: 13/03/2009 16:15:20
Subject: RE: Just Deserts It doesn’t suit my purpose to divorce to you right now. I have nothing to gain by it. The pattern of our entire relationship has been dictated by your whims and fancies. We visited the places you wanted to go, we ate where you wanted to eat, I’ve been kept from my loving family and loyal friends; you forced me into marriage, and insisted I became pregnant. You killed my dog; you killed my beautiful baby girl. You’ve done nothing but emotionally abuse and bully me. Everything has been about you. It’s my turn to take control so I’ll divorce you when I’m good and ready and not a moment sooner. That way your life will be on hold, in limbo. It’ll be impossible for you to move on and build a new life. No- woman will want you after I’m done. It’s time for pay back!

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