JACK OF DIAMONDS, REDUX

edited version of chapter 9

Photo by ZHENYU LUO on Unsplash

CHAPTER 9

Artie could feel the rage coming over him, and told himself it was just like the first time he went over the top. It wasn’t something he’d call hatred—it’s hard to hate someone you don’t know—but more of a kill, or be killed mentality you were quick to learn if you wanted to survive. You gave up any hope of surviving once you climbed over the top, running into a hail of bullets.

It was just blind luck he wasn’t killed in the first ten seconds. So once he actually encountered the enemy, he did anything he had to in order to survive and make it to the end of the day. He remembered once he beat a man’s face to a pulp with his rifle butt; another time, he bayonetted three men; and still another time, he clubbed another man to death with his rifle once he’d run out of bullets. He didn’t know if it was the sight of blood, or the scent of it—or if it was the sound of his fists hitting flesh, and breaking bones—all he knew was that he’d revelled in it.

“Stop it! You’re killing him!” Jenny cried out, jumping up off the bed. She picked up a heavy feather pillow, swinging it at Artie with all her strength.

Artie fell over—caught off guard—looking up at her, and then looking down at Roger’s bloody face. He slid off the man’s chest and sat on the floor, looking at her.

“He was going to rape you,” he said, as if that should’ve be explanation enough. Why did he even have to explain himself to her, he wondered. It was the only thing he could think to say. He didn’t expect that she’d understand the rage that had come over him—no one would—except maybe Reggie, but he wasn’t here, was he?

Maybe Roger would understand?

He sat back on his haunches, listening to Roger's laboured breathing before crawling away, leaning back against the bed frame and wondering what sort of man he'd become. He looked down at the bloody mess he'd made of Roger’s face. The man’s eyes were swollen shut; his nose was broken, as well as his left cheekbone. His lips were split open and raw, a broken tooth visible through the top lip; his jaw broken.

“What made you think this is what I wanted?” she yelled at him, hysterical, tossing the pillow back on the bed and looking down at her battered husband. She threw herself down on the bed; hugging the pillow to herself, screaming into it.

“My God, you’re a strange woman,” Artie said with a shake of his head. “No woman wants to be raped. It’s not a game. No woman pretends to want it, either—no normal woman, not purposely. Believe me, I saw it plenty of times during the War,” he said, taking his gloves off and seeing a cigarette laying on the floor. His hands were shaking, and lighting it proved a chore.