I think this story has something for most people except lovers of shallow sex, willing cuckolds or 'reconciliation at no cost' types. It will particularly appeal to people like me that have a strong sense of justice. Remember the second B, in BTB can have two meanings.
Like my other stories, I have taken a familiar idea and added what I think is a new twist. I haven't read all the stories here so if this isn't an original concept, I apologise in advance both to the author and for wasting reader's time.
Many thanks to SW_MO_Hermit for proofreading and suggestions on the ending. Also to RPBPhoto for legal advice to make it more realistic. Thanks also to Nancy my US cultural attachΓ©. I felt three reviewers were necessary as it is a complicated story.
Once again set your review dictionary to English (Australian) rather than English (US) and hopefully most of the blue and red squiggles will disappear. No wives were harmed in the making of this story. Much.
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From my seat in the dock I looked around the courtroom as the furore continued. After my shock began to dissipate, I realised with dread that the next 6-8 years of my life were going to be hell. And what about my kids? How can they have a normal life with one of their parents in prison for violent assault?
I looked around the court until I saw Sandra, my wife. She was standing there smiling at me. A grim smile maybe, but a smile none the less. I acknowledged the fact that her next 6-8 years were going to be unpleasant as well, with a small nod.
My eyes wandered the room looking for 'him', the guy that caused all this. He was hard to spot as the view to him was blocked by people standing in the front. Of course he couldn't stand yet. He would be in his wheelchair for at least a few months yet. I caught occasional glimpses of his crippled face through the throng. He looked shocked, even with one side of his face still paralysed.
It was my turn to smile.
So, he was shocked, she was smiling and I was numb. No one was going to be happy for a long, long time. How the fuck did it come to this?
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3 months, 2 weeks, 4 days and 18 hours ago
How I met Sandra, who we are or what we look like is totally irrelevant. We were just two ordinary people with decent morals and standards who had complete faith that society would look after decent people and punish the bad. In short, we could be you.
What is relevant is that Sandra and I'd been married for 14 years. During that time, I sired two kids. Rob was 12 and Sarah 10. They are my reason to be. Nothing in the world is more important to me than that they grow into physically and mentally healthy adults. That is my duty and my privilege.
Forty-five minutes ago I had thought that Sandra and I'd been totally in love with each other and would die together as wizened pensioners surrounded by hordes of great grandkids.
Forty-four minutes ago that belief took a serious dent.
Two minutes ago that belief was pissed into the wind. Shot. Destroyed. Murdered. Annihilated.
Knowing my violent temper and how it had got me in trouble in the past, I knew it was imperative that I get out of there and fast. I gathered the kids from where they were sitting on the bonnet of my wife's boss's car, outside room 215 of the motel, and hustled them back across the road to my car. Sandra made no move to get up from where she was slumped on the concrete pathway. Her boss, John Bertram, had slunk away already.
The aggrieved predator within me was barely resisting the urge to chase and kill when Sarah gripped my hand and squeezed it just moments before. The civilised human within me walked away without a glance backwards.
In a daze I took the kids home, fed them and got them to bed. All the while the image of Sandra and Bertram walking out of room 213 replayed in what currently passed for my brain. The dishevelled state of her makeup and hair absolutely precluding the chance they were there for a business meeting or any other innocent purpose.
If the kids said anything all evening then I didn't hear them.
It didn't even register with me that Sandra hadn't so much as rung us since we'd left her this afternoon. There was a knock at the door. The clock said 10.05. It was dark outside so it must have been the first night still.
The bewildered animal threw open the door ready to pounce.
And stopped. Where Sandra should have stood, vulnerable, remorseful and afraid, was her sister, Anne. My brain, hovering on the brink of insanity, sent no signals to my mouth to move. After taking in my slack-jawed countenance, Anne broke the silence.
"Sandra is in my car. Can she come in?"
It was bloody embarrassing. I could feel my mouth opening and closing but there were still no signals telling it what to say. With logic not happening, my brain resorted to instinct. What was my job? Easy. Feed, shelter, but above all else, protect my family. I realised, deep down in my unconscious that I must protect Sandra like I never had before. From me.
"No she can't Anne.......She's not safe here. Take her away. Far away." I knew in the battle between my instinct to protect and the animal urge to rend, kill and expunge the pain, there was no guaranteed winner.
Anne's next words destroyed my slowly returning rationality.
"God damn it Dave, she's been raped."
Her words just didn't register, so I could only repeat, "She's not safe here" and close the door in her face.
The clock said 3.13 when I finally came out of my torpor. Ironically I must have drunk enough whiskey to snap myself out of it. I examined all the possible excuses Sandra could use to explain being caught. Only one would not result in the end of her life as she knew it and that was rape.
Trouble was that I saw her walk out of room 213 with John-Fucking-Bertram; and she didn't look like a rape victim to me. So Sandra and Anne had cooked up a story. Well, I wasn't buying it. They could both go suck my sav.
I must have dozed after that, as the next thing I knew, bright sunlight was streaming in the window. My brain hurt. Well half a bottle of whiskey does that to a bloke. I glanced at the clock and saw it was 7.45. Shit the kids will be late for school.
I had them both out of bed and breakfast half made before Rob said, "Dad, it's Saturday." When that obviously didn't register, he went on with, "No school."
I slumped in one of the kitchen chairs.
"Dad, was mum having an affair with that man at the motel?"
"Yes, yes she was."
"What's going to happen Dad?"
I looked into the innocent, desperate eyes of my children. I badly needed to protect them, but I just didn't know what to say. I ended up saying nothing. After a while they wandered next door to their friend's house, where they often spent summer weekends in their pool.
I spent the day brooding. Divorce the slut, become a weekend warrior with a greatly reduced influence on my children's future; or live in a suddenly loveless, trust less marriage. My normally decisive personality let me down, and I was no nearer to a decision when shortly after 3PM the doorbell rang.
This time it was a guy in a suit who held up a badge, confirmed my identity and introduced himself as Detective Carling.
"Sir, your wife and her sister are outside; but are worried about coming in."
"I'm not bloody surprised about that Officer Carling, are you?"
"Sir, there are some things I need to tell you."