Where I'm Supposed to Be

How each of the authors interprets that is up to them. All decisions on story direction and execution are between the author and his/her muse.

This story and blackrandl1958's "Headshot" are a preview of what's coming up in December. Speaking for myself, nothing in this story is unique, but hopefully it's entertaining and not common fare for the category. Thank you for reading and Happy Thanksgiving.

I should have listened to my lawyer and never watched that DVD.

It didn't help anyone. The only impact it had was on me and it left me destroyed. Everything had been over for weeks. I could have just left it in the safe, unwatched. My anger would have the same, my sense of betrayal would have still been there, but I would have had my soul intact. I couldn't leave it alone, though. It was like an itch I had to scratch.

A year earlier, I had noticed small changes in my wife. She was dressing better, spent more money on clothes, which I didn't think was possible, and was staying out later with what she called 'the girls'. I don't know how five middle-aged women considered themselves 'girls', but whatever. The biggest clue was that she was happy.

My wife was a self-centered harridan and happy wasn't on her list of viable personality traits. Until then.

She had become even colder to me and the children. That wasn't as horrible as it could have been. We were used to our home being a place where she came to sleep and our family being a verbal punching bag. Now she wasn't even pretending to care. No calls to say she was going to be late, no making the kids meals.

After I received a printed-out Amazon gift card for my birthday that was left on the dining room table and her not showing up until 11:00 that night, I had decided that enough was enough. When the kids told her about our going to Bucca di Peppo to celebrate and questioned her about not attending, she rushed them to bed.

Her face was beet red. "You couldn't wait? You just couldn't wait until the weekend? Now I'm the bad guy. Just freaking wonderful. Dad's the put-upon hero. Again."

I sat there, Shiner Bock in hand, staring at her. "You have to be kidding me. We didn't leave the house until 7:00. We waited an hour and a half for you. Did you even check your messages? Your daughter called you three times. You know what? Fuck you. Why do you even bother coming home? Next time, just stay gone."

I clambered to my feet, a little drunk after the red wine with dinner and three beers in short succession after we got home. I climbed the stairs to the bed, stripped down to my underwear and got under the covers. She entered fifteen minutes later.

I don't know if she was feeling guilty or it was an attempted birthday gift, but laying next to me, she reached into my shorts and gently grabbed my dick. I couldn't remember the last time I had yelled at her, and I guess she decided that conciliatory was the way to go. "I know we've grown a little distant lately, honey, but we can work it out. You know I love you."

We hadn't had sex in more than five weeks and we hadn't made love in years. I would have liked to have rolled over and ignored her, but I wasn't that strong. When she kissed me, I kissed her back. I kissed her ear and moved down to her neck as I pulled up her negligee. She kept her hand on my growing cock and was slowly pulling it, stroking it, bringing it to its full length.

My lips made their way to her collarbone when I smelled it: Eros by Versace. The aroma was faint, probably hours old, but it was there. I use Fierce, by Abercrombie and Fitch, but the kids got me a bottle of what I was smelling on her for my birthday. I shouldn't have been surprised by the implications, but they upped and smacked me in the face. I felt the Italian food rising in my throat, ran to the bathroom and lost my dinner.

I rinsed my mouth out and sat there on the toilet, trying to think.

"Anthony? Are you all right?" She was outside the door.

No, I'm not all right, you cheating bitch. "Sick. I need a few minutes."

"Okay. I'm going to sleep in the guest room then. Don't want to catch anything."

Thanks for the comfort and support, whore. "Okay."

What the fuck was I going to do?

I used the computer in the shop the next morning and found a surprising amount of private investigators. Who knew Colorado was a hot bed of illicit activities? How was I supposed to determine which one was the best? I had no idea. I chose the one with the website I thought looked the most professional.

In two weeks, I had all the information I needed. She was fucking our kid's pediatrician. I shouldn't have been surprised. She was probably looking to upgrade. He was divorced and in his late forties or early fifties. Doctor Burrows had plenty of money, and that's all she ever cared about. She was a mercenary cunt and I'd known that for at least a decade.

Her brother was Jerry Hernandez, the legendary middleweight boxer. He'd bought us a home when we got married and we lived on the same block as her other siblings and her mother. Jerry had staked me when I quit my job at the firm and became a professional glassblower. He bought all the equipment necessary and owned ten percent of my business. When I paid him back, he'd returned his ownership stake.

I did fairly well for myself. Working as an artist instead of as a commercial drone made me happy. Not my beloved wife, though. It was too financially risky until I bought her a BMW. She was mollified, but still not happy about having to tell her friends I was an artist who worked out of a shop in the backyard.

Every time I tried to pay her brother back, she complained. "He doesn't need the money, he's rich." I tried once to explain that him needing the money wasn't the point. If she understood, which I doubted, she didn't care. Any money that we took in was ours, and she would be damned before it went to someone else.

Oddly, that outlook didn't extend to other people's money. She constantly had Jerry paying for things for her. It took me six years to pay my brother-in-law back with money I kept hidden from my wife. He always tried to refuse the payments I made every few months because that's the sort of man he was. I kept making the payments because that's the sort of man I was.

When Jerry was dying and lost his money, he could no longer help her. The house was in her name and she immediately had it listed. We moved to Pueblo within weeks. The small town we had been raising our children in was too provincial for her. I think she saw her brother once more before he died. I took the kids to see him almost every weekend.

She informed me that I made her look bad by going without her.

So, yeah, I knew who and what my wife was. Unfortunately, I had still loved her. I think I loved her right until I walked into the doctor's office. Her car had been in the parking lot, so I knew she was there. The kids were old enough to fix their own dinner and stay unsupervised for a while.

His practice was in an office suite with other white-collar businesses. The door to his offices was locked and I almost popped my shoulder from the joint when I decided I was macho enough to knock it down. After bouncing off the door, I grabbed a fire extinguisher that was nearby and slammed the metal cannister repeatedly on the door handle. Within a minute the door was open, and I was in.

I heard Camilla's moans from a nearby room. It felt like the clowns and Disney characters decorating the walls mocked me as I moved closer to the adulterous pair. Her growing wails and pleas led me to the second room in a hallway of examination rooms for sick children. He had her bent over the table, his less than impressive cock slamming into my wife. The doctor was at an odd angle as he tried to minimize the contact from his oversized belly.

The sick sounds of slapping flesh, the visuals of his flabby white ass and her gaping vagina and the wet sloshing noise from their coupling both nauseated and infuriated me. This? This is what she was cheating on me for?

They had no idea I was there until I wrapped my forearm around his throat and pulled him back. I threw him against a cabinet filled with cotton swabs, tongue depressors, and other supplies, most of which fell to the ground. He was shocked into silence, staring at me, mouth agape. She wasn't so quiet.

"An... Anthony. Anthony! Get out of here. Get out!"

I hadn't been in a fight since the fourth grade. I wasn't a retired Navy Seal. I never even picked up any tips from Jerry on how to box. I punched Dr. Burrows in the stomach as hard as I could, and I felt something twist the wrong way in my wrist. With the other hand, I pushed his head against the cabinet. Why? I have no idea. I should have punched him or hit him with something.

The bitch continued to yell. "GET OUT! You ruin everything! Everything." She started pounding on my back, probably more effective with her fists than I was with mine.

I back-handed Burrows across his face and kicked him in the shin. I sucked as a fighter. He was covering up as best he could. I guess he also sucked as a fighter.

Getting myself under control, I started to feel the throbbing in my hand and wrist. I looked about the shambles of a room, equipment was strewn everywhere. I spit on the doctor and turned to my wife.

"Don't come home this time. Just stay the fuck away from us."

I left and drove to the hospital. I called my aunt and asked her to come by and stay with the kids until I got home. Nothing was broken in my hand or wrist, but it hurt like hell. They wrapped it up for me, gave me prescriptions for some pain killers and anti-inflammatories and sent me home.

They were visible from the end of the block. I slowed down and then stopped as I watched the two police cars sitting outside our house. I thought about turning around and going to a hotel for the night, getting a lawyer and turning myself in, but I was too tired to fight. I just wanted all of this to be over. Her presence had been a shroud over our lives for as long as I could remember, and it was mentally and spiritually exhausting.

I'd spend the night in jail, post bail and get my kids. We could stay with my aunt until I figured out a long-term plan.

Yeah, not so much.

She started screaming and pointing as I pulled up. Hiding halfway behind the door, she did a great job of pretending to be terrified. Her left eye appeared bruised and would likely be black and blue the next day. A ball of lead settled in the pit of my stomach. The bitch was setting me up. I turned off the car, kept my hands visible at all times and slowly stepped out and onto the driveway.

The police officers were professional. One of them kept her hand near her holster while the other slowly walked towards me while speaking.

"Mr. Anthony Cuddo?"

"Yes. I'll admit right now that I broke into fuckheads office and smacked him around, but I never touched my wife. I assume I'm going to be arrested?"

Looking at my house as they cuffed me, I saw my aunt steer my eldest son from the window. My wife, the bitch, was smirking at me as the officer had his hand on my head, making sure I got in the back of the car safely.

My one allowed phone call went to my cousin Matteo. We grew up together and were closer to siblings than cousins. He got me the best lawyer in the city and arranged my bail. I couldn't get within five-hundred feet of the bitch or my children. I couldn't contact them in any way.

Thanks to Matteo's lawyer and Dr. Burrows not wanting fathers to know that he was banging the mothers of his patients, I only did sixty days and had a lengthy parole. It could have been worse, but not seeing my kids was killing me.

After I was released I received supervised visitation, one hour a week, supervision paid for by me.

Matteo loaned me enough money to put a down deposit on a house. It was the same home where we had raised our children. The building for my old shop was still there and I had to have a Sheriff with me when I retrieved my tools and equipment from the house the bitch and my kids still lived in.

Like a wounded animal, I crept back to the place that made me feel safe. This was where I had been happiest. I started working again and Matteo became my biggest customer. I don't know what he did for a living, exactly. I had a rough idea, though. It's pretty much what he had done since we were kids. He found people that had something to sell, he found people who needed what was being sold and he put them together for a percentage of the sale.

Did I think it was all legal? Not at all. Matteo had a knack for putting the right people together and as long as it wasn't something that would harm innocents, he didn't care too much about what was being negotiated. He had me working on high-end vases and was paying me outrageous fees. In turn, he sold the vases to the people he helped and they paid him huge amounts of money for the vase. On the books, his money now came from selling vases that should have cost under $1000 for tens of thousands of dollars.

The divorce was winding its way through the legal system and the bitch was now pushing for unsupervised visitations. I was surprised by how long it took her to make that move. Now that she had to actually be a mother, she didn't care for it. If she could foist the kids on me at times, it gave her an opportunity to go out and do whatever and whoever.

The previous year I had made $52,000. Not bad, but not great. The cost of living wasn't too high around us, so the bitch didn't have to work. We were at the lower end of comfortable. Her lawyer was using that amount to gouge me for alimony and child support. Matteo was holding onto my pay or cut or whatever you want to call it until I asked for it. With his purchases taken into account, I was looking at making just over $125,000 that year.

I'd fight her on the percentage she got of the $52,000, but I wouldn't fight too hard.

When the divorce was complete she sent me a long letter. I never opened the envelope, but it felt like there had to be at least five sheets of paper in there. I knew her, so I knew what they would contain. I was a loser. I should have earned more money. I overreacted to Dr. Burrows' thorough medical examination. Everything was my fault.

I took it into my shop and turned it into ashes with a blowtorch.

Weeks went by and I couldn't stop thinking about that DVD. It was like Chinese water torture. Always there, always knocking at the door of my mind. Drip. Did she talk about me to him? Drip. Did he fuck her better than I did? Drip. Was everything actually my fault? Drip. Would the DVD tell me why she tore our family apart? Drip.

I finally popped it into my laptop and sat down with a fifth of Jack.

The view of my wife getting fucked by the aging Dr. Burrows didn't destroy me. To be honest, it was sort of boring. Normal people don't fuck like porn stars. She sucked his dick, he slammed his less than impressive cock into her and he came pretty quickly. The end.

What stole my life from me were her words. She had married me because Jerry liked me. Her brother was her meal ticket and she wanted to keep him happy. The bitch thought she was making a sacrifice for her brother's sake. If she was marrying me to make him happy, she should have no compunctions about fucking around. That was depressing, but not soul shattering.

What crushed me was when she told the good doctor that I wasn't the biological father to any of our three children. Oddly, the first thing that went through my mind was what sort of a lunatic thinks that was the pillow talk that would woo you a new husband? The video was detailed enough for me to see him flinch and a look of disgust flashed across his face.

I missed my next visitation. Not because I loved them any less, but because I had climbed into a bottle and started drinking my days away.

A few weeks later Matteo was on my porch. I looked like crap, but so did he. If the tie-breaker was hygiene, he was definitely winning. I gazed at his newly bald head and pallid skin for too long and he finally spoke.

"You gonna invite me in?"

"Oh, yeah, sure. Sorry." I opened the screen door for him and looked around in the fridge for a beer. I handed him one, grabbed one for myself, thought better of it and put mine back.

"So, what are you doing here, Matteo?"

"Nothing much. You haven't answered your phone in more than two weeks. You haven't called anyone. You missed visitation with your kids, my mom's pretty pissed about that by the way, and you owe me four vases. You smell like a hobo and your house is a mess. But hey, aside from that, everything is cool."

I sat down on the couch and Matteo swept some newspapers off a chair before he also sat.

"Talk to me, Anthony. What's going on?"

Taking a deep breath, let it out and started. "I... damn it, the kids..."

"What about the kids? Are they okay?"

"They're... the kids aren't mine."

"What the fuck are you talking about? Who told you that?"

"My cunt of an ex-wife. It's on a video from the PI's. She was telling the doctor. I think the psycho was bragging."

Anger warred with sadness in my cousin's face. He took a moment before responding. "That fucking whore. That miserable, cheating whore. If she was in a dumpster fire I would only walk by to close the lid. Fuck her. First off, we need to get tests done to see if she was telling the truth. And then, fuck her! You raised those kids. You're more their parent than she is.

You need to straighten up. Shave, take a shower, get something reasonable to eat and we'll go talk to your lawyer. You need to go for full custody. Fuck her."

Matteo might not have had the most extensive vocabulary, but he was my cousin and best friend. While I was in the shower he straightened up the house. He dragged my Weber kettle around to the front of the house and was pouring some charcoal in when I stepped out onto the porch.

"Hey, you're looking human again. Here's what we're going to do. We're going to Pueblo to see the lawyer and then we're going to try to see your kids. We need to get in front of this for CPS or the welfare people or whoever the fuck determines your custody and visitations. Then, you're flying with me back to L.A., Barbara would love to see you. I'll get you back here for your next official visitation."

And that's what we did. We spoke with the lawyer who promised to speak to the right people and mitigate any damage done by my missing the visitation. The bitch let us see the kids as it allowed her to get out and do what she wanted. She stopped me on my way out the door.

"Anthony, I need some money."

"Get a job."

"I have to watch the kids, idiot."

I stopped and counted to ten. "Get a part time job."

"Be reasonable. It's just money."

"It's just my money, you grubby little bitch. My money! You get every penny you're owed, you got the house and your car and now you want more? I know for a fact that Matteo's mom buys stuff for the kids. You're not getting a fucking dime more out of me."

Matteo called from the driveway. "Anthony, let's go."

He was right. Staying and talking to her was a waste of time. I turned and left her standing there. This wasn't about her, it was about my kids.

We took them to a movie and out to dinner. They were happy to see "Uncle Matteo" and all of us went to my aunt's for dessert. Matteo had three pies, four gallons of ice-cream and a wad of cash for his mom. I couldn't have unsupervised visitations, but how could it be my fault if I happen to be around when they visited with their uncle?