Hillary_Tail of the Dog by Angel Gelique Page B

as she threw open the door. Towels were folded neatly on the bottom rows. Sheets and bedding were folded on top.
    What color did Hillary say the sheet was? Monica thought, as she looked up at the pile. Pink, definitely pink. The pink sheet at the top of the pile was not folded as neatly...was basically wadded up in a flattened ball and shoved on top. Yes, this is the one, Monica thought nervously as she reached up and grabbed it. The clean smell of detergent and fabric softener stimulated her olfactory senses and increased her nausea as the sheet passed under her nose.
    She shook it open and examined it closely, looking for stains. There—just below the center—was the unmistakable blood stain. Monica dropped the sheet as her worst fear was confirmed. At first she stood there frozen, not knowing what to do. She began to tremble with disgust, anguish, anger. She swiftly swooped up the sheet and walked to her bedroom. It was just after seven o’clock. Patrick would be home soon. She would wait for him and confront him with the undeniable evidence.
     
    Monica was awakened by Patrick’s entrance. She had fallen asleep waiting for him to return home. It was almost nine o’clock now. She rubbed her eyes then sat up abruptly, remembering the sheet which was crumpled beside her. Patrick’s eyes were fixed upon it. He then looked at Monica who glared up at him furiously.
    “What’s this about?” he asked, annoyed. That was his usual tendency, to be offensive when he grew defensive.
    “You tell me,” Monica replied venomously.
    “Why do you have that sheet in here?”
    “Why is there a blood stain on this sheet?” Her eyes were like lasers burning holes in his head.
    “What are you talking about?” he answered naively. Monica threw the sheet at him violently. She was in no mood to be patronized.
    “Enough!” she yelled. “I know what you did to that girl.”
    “Oh God, not this again,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Nothing happened, Monica, how can you let her deceive you like this?”
    “Shut up, Patrick, the proof is right there.” Monica pointed to the sheet.
    “That proves nothing. She has a urinary catheter in her—it causes bleeding sometimes.”
    “Yeah, all of a sudden? Coincidentally when she accuses you of raping her?”
    “It happens, Monica, catheters cause bleeding” he said defensively.
    “And it was such a big emergency to do the laundry all of a sudden? You never do the laundry...but I guess you wanted to get rid of other fluids on the sheet,” she snapped.
    “What are you insinuating, Monica?”
    “I’m not insinuating anything…you know exactly what I’m saying, Patrick. You raped her...you raped that girl...you....”
    Monica broke down and cried, turning her face away from him. She couldn’t finish her thoughts, her sentence. She was too repulsed, too overwhelmed by the knowledge that her husband had not just cheated on her, but had sexually abused a minor. Patrick walked over to console her. She shirked away as if cringing from an attacker.
    “Don’t you dare touch me,” she shouted scornfully.
    He retreated and sat at the foot of the bed.
    “Monica, I swear, I never touched her—”
    “You’re a liar!” she screamed. “I know you did it, I know it.”
    Patrick reached over grabbed her by the shoulders firmly.
    “I did no such thing, Monica. She’s the one who’s a liar. I can’t believe we’re even having this discussion.”
    Monica pulled away and got off the bed.
    “Don’t touch me again,” she said angrily.
    “I did laundry because it was piling up. I didn’t know how long you’d be gone, what was I supposed to do?”
    Monica turned and left, without answering him. She walked into the guest bedroom, the one closest to the room where Hillary lay in bed smiling, having overheard the shouting.
    Monica had already moved most of her clothing and personal effects into the guest room. She was convinced that her husband had molested Hillary. She would never