In the Devil's Company

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed loudly as another hour passed. It was already 2 AM. I had an art class to teach in the morning and the other side of my bed remained empty.

You would be incorrect to assume that I’m waiting up for my husband to return. No, that wasn’t it. I wouldn’t allow that to be the reason.

Instead, I busied myself with a paintbrush in hand and an empty canvas in front of me. My fingers gripped tightly around the worn wooden stem of the brush as I tried to channel my creativity.

Just as the brush began to make a thick cerulean stroke along the white backdrop, the garage door rumbled loudly as a car rolled inside, doors slamming after being parked. Ronnie was home.

I sighed in annoyance as I placed the brush down on a paper plate and prepared myself for the all too predictable events about to fall before my eyes. The front door flew open so hard that the knob ended up denting the wall.

Ronnie stumbled inside reeking of smoke, alcohol, and sex. I leaned against the hall’s frame with my arms crossed over my chest, a well-prepared glare positioned on my face. I was sick and tired of having to deal with this bullshit day after day, and I was going to let him know. I’m not standing in the dark anymore. If he wants to live like he’s single, then by all means I won’t be stopping him, provided I’m not around to witness it anymore!

He closed the door and stared at the cracked hole in the wall with drunken amusement. His hair was sticking out in all directions, eyeliner was smeared below his eyes, and his clothes were wrinkled.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I spat, causing him to turn around sharply.

His smile had vanished in the process. “What are you bitching about now?” he whined, walking further into the room…closer to me.

“I’m done with this, Ronnie. I know what you do when you’re out with the guys and I’m not going to let you use me anymore.”

“Oh, come on, Claire. Now’s not the time for overreacting,” he drawled, stumbling onto me, leaning his two arms around me up against the wall.

“I hope you had a good time, Ronnie,” I muttered, pressing my palms against his chest to create some space, “because I’m leaving.” I threw one last icy cold glare in his direction before heading back to my studio.

Time froze suddenly as a burning sensation crawled across my scalp. He had reached forward and tangled his fingers between my brown locks. I cried out as he tugged hard, causing me to trip backwards and back into his arms.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled, throwing me down onto the tiled floor in the foyer. “Who the fuck do you think you are, Claire? Do you not remember all I’ve done for you? Without me, you’d be nobody…you’d have nothing!”

He delivered a strong kick to the abdomen, sucking the air right out of my lungs. I gasped as I rolled over, creeping into the fetal position, my fingers delicately cradling the tender skin. Just as his infamous drunken late night returns were typical, this was nothing new either.

Women would expect a hug or kiss upon being reunited with their husbands. What do I wait for? Violent contact and lasting scars of heathen, alcohol-induced rage. Sometimes I like to tell myself that this wasn’t really Ronnie, raising his tattooed arm behind his back and bringing the fisted impact down into my cheekbone.

In most cases, Ronnie didn’t remember doing most of this by the time the hangover passed mid-afternoon. And I think that’s what made it even worse.

Ronnie’s words killed me internally. Not because of how he said them, but rather the fact that they were partially true. My parents had a rule that by 21 you had to be out of the house and on your own. That worked out just fine for Matt since he had his tours and stuff. I was ok while I was away at college…but I ended up graduating a year early and was without residence.

I roamed the streets of Huntington searching for jobs and places to stay. I ended up sneaking into the local venue’s show of Warped Tour. And that’s where I met Ronnie. Him and his bassist Max shared a place in Las Vegas and offered to let me move in. It only took a week for Ronnie to actually ask me out.

We got married three years later. And that was when the seemingly perfect fairytale became enflamed in hell’s fire.

I gripped the grout between the tiles to pull myself up a little. Ronnie was gaining on me and I needed to get to the kitchen…fast. I crawled on hands and knees toward my destination, but it wasn’t good enough. He leapt forward and landed hard on my back, knocking me back down onto the cold, hard ground. He stood up a little so that he could flip me over onto my back.

“You make me sick, you little bitch,” he yelled.

In the dim light a lamp in the living room offered, I could see his green eyes transformed into evil looking slits filled with misplaced rage. “N-now you know how I feel every time you come home like this,” I retorted, not caring how he reacted. It needed to be said.

His eyebrows perked upward, almost like he was hurt by what I said, but he quickly blinked it away and answered with another fist to the face. This time, the impact was harder and much more unanticipated. Little specs of blood splashed up across his shirt and face. Some of the blood landed just below his mouth. I cringed as a painfully happy memory filled my mind.

I remembered our wedding day… It was on the same day that we had originally met, our unofficial “anniversary,” if you will. All of Ronnie’s band mates were present, in addition to our families, and the rest of Avenged Sevenfold. Everyone was so happy that day. Said that Ronnie and I looked so damn good together…that we’d end up having adorable babies.

Ronnie had been incredibly excited to dig into the cake. It was a chocolate cake with white frosting and red trim. He didn’t wait for a fork…just lifted the piece up and shoved it in his mouth. The red trim smeared along the sides of his mouth and a little below.

It looked just like the blood that was now in its place.

“Now, what was that you said about leaving?” he taunted, giving me some sort of smug smile.

He was resting all of his weight on top of me, making it very difficult to breathe. As much as it slaughtered my pride to do so, I complied and agreed I wasn’t leaving him. Satisfied, he got off of me and followed me to our bedroom.

An entire hour had passed since I first sat down and attempted to begin a new painting to calm my nerves. I stared at the unfinished piece with a look of disapproval. Not even a painting of a calm riverside could make me feel better right now. I firmly grasped the edges of the canvas and threw it down onto the ground.

Ronnie was in the bathroom taking a quick shower before going to bed. I lifted up my t-shirt to find a large green and yellow mark in the center of my stomach. Looks like I’m sleeping on my back tonight. I shed my jean shorts on the floor and changed into some pajama pants before slowly crawling into bed.

I watched the fan blades spin around on the ceiling and breathed slowly to calm my racing heart. What was I going to do about all this? I can’t live my life like this. But it’s not like I have a ton of options. No one outside of this house can ever know about this, and no one ever will.

I have found over the years that I can only depend on myself to get something done properly, yet I’ve never had the required amount of strength to stay true to that...I always chicken out and beg for someone to help me deal with my problems.

Steam curled and rolled out of the bathroom after Ronnie had opened the door and stepped out wearing only boxers, his wet hair clinging to his skin. Ronnie was hot, that much I couldn’t deny. But his personality would never amount to that factor.

He threw his towels and dirty laundry into the hamper before pulling the sheets back and crawling into bed next to me. “Claire, you still up?” he whispered.

“Yeah…”

He rolled over, gently wrapped an arm around me, pulling me up against his chest; he was acting like a completely different person. I knew he wasn’t planning on apologizing for what happened earlier. At a certain point, “sorry” loses its value. He’d long since passed that marker.

Instead, he took a different route. “I love you, baby.” It was unexpected, but not really appreciated. An “I love you” from him was closely following “I’m sorry” on the path to extinction.

I steadied my breathing trying to suggest that I was asleep. There was no point in verbally responding to a lie – that would only encourage its existence further.