Tanner Babcock

  1. Fiction

The Pit

Copyright © 2019 Tanner Babcock.

It's the first, second, third time you've sabotaged yourself like this. You've kept me from attending college even though I've had an inoperable brain tumor, and not only that, you've destroyed every relationship you've ever had, including ours. I can deal with it when you mistreat me, but when you treat our family like it's a burden, a non-issue, a nuisance, that's what I can't fucking stand.

Do you think your children, friends, relatives enjoy being with an abuser? No one's buying your little narrative that this is normal, you can't isolate your children. Everyone knows what you're doing is wrong.

Eighteen days at the luxury hotel, bothering the hotel staff and slowly tricking them into thinking you really work there, and you think you're Mister Hot Shit Breath Don't Smell Rockerfeller. You've come crashing back down to earth, into a drain of a life that quickly destroys your ambitions and dreams. You deserve it.

Piece of shit cocksucker mother fucker. Think you can write intel x86 assembly because you can copy and paste code from the lesser-known tags on Stack Overflow? Stick to what you know: Masturbating, hand-coloring paper asylums for children via crayon, absorbing self, and indulging. You don't know jack shit. Every single one of your coworkers knows that you're a sorry excuse for an architect. Not a planner or a mathematician, a measurer or designer, rather a bean counter, or a social magician, who can hide behind his own petty manipulations and appearances. Keep taking everything in your life for granted, fuck face.

Into the trenches you go again. You have briefly slipped into the terrifying stage of life where others around you begin to trick you into thinking you're going insane. Rock music? Architecture School? Nine Wellington Wood Academy years and letter jackets were all pissed away in the great Heroin Frenzy of '17.

Your children hate you. They don't even know who you are. They used to ask about you when they were little, "Where's Daddy? Where's Daddy?" and I would have to be put into the unenviable position of telling them that their dad would rather be doing something else, something "more important". But over time, they stopped asking, and they stopped caring. They grew into the violent, impulsive, borderline psychotic, angst-ridden teenagers we have now. Instead of spending time with your children, you've opted for a less favorable way to spend your time: to be right-hand bitch to an aspiring hitman with steel-string marimbas and forty cylinders. "Pwease wet me pway tambowine with you, big geetah man!" No kids allowed bitch, turn the phone off and tell your wife to chill the fuck out.

"Fuck you, Dad!" your daughter Jacqueline shouted at you and carved into your Mercedes at the age of 13. She said it to you again last week, too, over Frosted Flakes. "Fuck you, Narrator." Your son is blackmailing his female classmates into sending him pornographic pictures of themselves. Did you or did you not block it out when little Narrator Jr. mutilated a defenseless lamb by cutting its leg off in a farmhouse in 2004? He even threw the leg in the pond to try to kill a toad with it. Your children are showing signs that serial killers exhibit at an early age.

You never gave a fuck. The one opportunity you really had in life, which was the Young Entrepreneurs and Part Time Republicans Club in high school, you pissed away because you really wanted to do ketamine at the Dave Matthews concert. You ignored every call from your fellow members you ever got. I know because I was there. No, we didn't have a romance at that point, I was your friend's ugly pain in the ass girlfriend for two years, while you were off banging every Betty, Polly, and Sue with big eyelashes and more tits than brain cells. Fuck you. If I ever needed a morsel of self-esteem or positive self image, it was during the mistake of my life that was meeting you. I always had trouble believing that you didn't just marry me because I was the safest option with the least amount of effort.

When your son Narry Junior was 8, and you were 34, you had come home from the casino after losing $10,000 and drinking a fifth of Max WellMan. Your son had created a model Empire State Building out of 30,000 lego bricks, with perfect symmetry, color shading, and geometric angles. He kept showing me all night. "Look at it now, Mommy! Copper legos next to the gold legos, with silver on top." You threw a sock full of pennies at his head and he tumbled into his own creation, scattering his carefully selected two-centimeter-wide bricks around the room, and turning his masterpiece into a pile of ruins. You laughed in his face as he lay bleeding with a black eye and snot running into his gaping, heartbroken mouth. I would have yelled at you until my lungs collapsed if I wasn't afraid you were going to kill me.

And then came the cheating. The first time I left you in 2006, I thought I was done with your bullshit and I was finally free. But no. You came running back to me, grovelling, begging, promising me you'd change - read: telling me everything you thought I wanted to hear. I saw the pictures of the women you've fucked on your phone, saw the lipstick on your collar even though you thought you've hidden it. I confronted you countless times. Every one of those times, I thought it was the last time.

One day you will rot. With that, I'm leaving and I'm taking the kids. I want you out of the house by Monday. If you're still here on Monday I'm calling the police. Don't call me. I'm not at my parents, and I'm certainly not staying at my sister's. I'll be at the Sheraton with a stranger I picked up that looks like you from ten years ago.

If you hurt me, try to contact me, contact my family, harass me, stalk me, or manipulate our children in any way, I will file a restraining order. You will not win this. If I have my way in court you'll never see the kids again.