The glass never felt like it left his hand. Hell, he never knew he had one in his hand until he saw the small shards of it scatter at his feet. He looked up, eyes unfocused, and realized that he was the only one here now. Staggering to the couch, he heavily sat down and drank straight from the bottle of bourbon he suddenly had. The events of the night blurred in his mind, but the wreckage around the house spoke volumes to what had happened. With his head in his hands, he desperately tried to claw his way through the fog in his mind, trying vainly to piece together the night, though it seemed about as probable as trying to piece together that broken glass.
He was making phone calls, trying to get directions to twenty people at once. This is his first house party he has ever thrown. It was his first house he had ever owned period. He had all the food, drinks, and music set up already, now he was just waiting for the people to get there. The first people arrived, two of his closest friends with two other people he didn't know. Taking coats and welcoming everyone in equal measure, he showed them around the house. He was so proud of the house, even though it sent him nearly into bankruptcy, but it was worth it. He had been with his wife for two years now and they finally reached the point where they were stable enough to commit to a house. Moving from a one bedroom apartment in the city to a house out in the rural areas outside was a big change for both of them, but they found the neighbors welcoming, which helped a great deal in those heady early days.
More guests arrived and the music was loud. His wife was mingling with his friends and everyone was enjoying themselves. He stepped out back, checked on the grill and took a beer from the cooler. Opening it with a hiss, he made sure everything was in order before he went back inside. People were deep in their cups as they played drinking games at the kitchen table, beer pong on the island, and danced to the music in the living room. He watched them with a smile and shook hands with the people who came up to compliment him on the house. An hour or so later, he took the food off the grill and brought it inside, announcing that the food was ready and to dig in. He glanced around, looking for his wife, but couldn't find her over the throng of people surrounding him and the stack of ribs he cooked up. He fought his way through the crowd and called for her, but didn't receive an answer. He climbed the stairs and headed to the bedroom, thinking that she may have went up there to get away from all the noise and chaos on the main floor. He heard voices from inside their bedroom and froze as he was about to turn the handle, listening closely to the not so subtle sounds coming from inside.
The sounds of moaning and the push and thrust of intercourse filled his ears and inflamed his mind. He couldn't believe it, he just stood there in shock, his hand frozen on the handle as a chill ran down his entire body. He looked down and pulled his hand back in disgust, almost as if the handle was involved in the act going on inside his bedroom, on his bed, on their bed. He turned and went downstairs, pushing past people who patted him on the back and laughed at the great time they were having at his party. He moved like a man on a mission through them, pushing and shoving people out of his way until he reached the bar. He poured himself a double bourbon and swallowed it down, ignoring the burning as it slid down his throat. He took shot after shot, trying to erase what he heard from his mind. It must have been two other people, he thought. She wouldn't do this to me, he reasoned. He drank another shot down and turned around, half convinced he just made a mistake.
His mind burned, he couldn't recall anything else. He thought that he made a mistake, it wasn't her, and he just drank too much. She is upstairs asleep, alone, and the party ended hours ago. He was right that the party ended hours ago, and he was right that his wife was upstairs alone. He stumbled up the stairs, his hand gripping tightly to the banister to keep him from tumbling head over heel back to the living room, and successfully made it to the top. He stood swaying at his door, his mind, fogged and still trying to rationalize why she would do this to him. His hand fumbled for the handle and connected. He turned it and attempted to gently open the door as to not wake her, but ended up falling through the door and almost fell into the bed. His mind tried to piece together what he was seeing, not sure if he was even in the right house or not, when he froze and the fog cleared away as the chill ran through his body again. His wife was curled up in the corner of the room, her dress in tatters and bruises on her neck and wrists. He could clearly see the look of horror on her face and the tears streaming down her cheeks. He sank to his knees and crawled to her, hot tears falling from his chin as he realized what happened. He took her in his arms and cried, realizing he was the reason this happened.
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