Parisi - Today My Name Is Billie

Copyright 2019 Neile Parisi

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Today My Name is Billie is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

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To my mother Nellall that I am or hope to be I owe to my angel mother, who has supported me and been my greatest cheerleader throughout my life. To my family, who loved and assisted me continually. And to Elizabeth Taylor, who always believed in me.

I RAN AS FAST AS I COULD down the wet pavement, carrying only my purse in one hand and my toothbrush in the other. Still dressed in my nightgown, I had managed to don a coat, but there was no time for shoes. I prayed that Jimmy would appear soon as I fingered the revolver in my coat pocket. Breathlessly, I turned partially to see my husband chasing after me. Oh, God, help me, please! Dont let him catch up with me. Jimmy, where are you? Hurry, please hurry!

As I finished that silent prayer, a car rounded the corner, screeching on two wheels. The door flew open, and Jimmy yelled, Billie, get in!

The car kept moving and I jumped in, as if I were in a scene from a John Wayne movie.

Hurry, Jimmy, hes gaining on us! I dont want to use this. I pulled out the gun and flashed it in front of Jimmys face.

Where did you get that?

I grabbed it as I was running out of the house.

I stared out the back window as my husbands image faded into the darkness, and for a moment, I felt safe. He said he was going to kill either himself or me.

I T FELT LIKE I HAD KNOWN W ILLIAM my whole life. He and my brother were best friends in middle and high school. I never gave him the time of day; he was my brothers friend, not mine. I mean, I was polite, but thats all. He would come over to our house frequently. I didnt know why then. My mom always invited him for dinner. He liked being at our home more than his own. There was no drinking or fighting, only pleasant conversation and love surrounding our dining room table. We had a humble life, but we always felt the love of our parents. I think that was what William was searching for.

I was sixteen and he was seventeen, and like I said, I wasnt the slightest bit interested in himbut he was interested in me. He came over more frequently. This went on for two years. I had boyfriends and prom dates that didnt include him. When I graduated from high school, my mom invited him to my party. I went to a private girls school. He went to the public school with my older brother. I started college in the fall, and so did William. He and I went to the same university. How convenient. It wasnt until sophomore year that I began to look at him differently, and he asked me out. I was nineteen and he was twenty.

He decided he wanted to join the army and was whisked away to Vietnam. He wanted to go. He liked being a soldier. He said it was the one thing he did very well. That both saddened and scared me.

He liked it so well that he signed up for a second tour. I wasnt sure Id wait for him, but I did.

William was different when he returned home. He was nervous and defensive. I know he felt badly because people were protesting the returning vets. No one ever thanked them for their service. It must have been difficult being called baby killers. At times, he said he should have stayed there where he felt he belonged.

He was a highly decorated soldier, a green beret. He often said his greatest talent was killing, and his best occupation was being a soldier. That was why he did two tours in Vietnam.

William came from a tragic homelife. His dad, an alcoholic, died of cirrhosis. William was only thirteen when it happened. His mom drank and joined the ranks of severe alcoholism too. At this early age, he was raising his younger brothers and sisters, feeding them and escorting them to school, and filling in for both parents.

I attributed Williams drinking to his homelife and tours of duty in Nam.

A couple of months after he got home, he returned to school, and we got engaged. The wedding was to be after Williams graduation.

The abuse actually started while we were dating. The first time he hit me, he punched me so hard in the arm that it bruised immediately. I had to make up a lie to convince my mom that I had fallen and whacked my arm. That was a couple of months before the wedding, and my dad had a talk with him. He asked him if he loved me and wanted to marry me and take care of me. William apologized and said he did, so my dad gave his blessing.

I thought about calling it off, but foolishly, I didnt. I said to myself that the invitations had gone out, some presents had been received, and it was too late to cancel. We had an enormous and spectacular Italian wedding. It was so good, in fact, that the guests were reopening their cards and shoving more money into the envelopes. My dad owned a package store, so the liquor flowed freely. My brother paid the band to keep playing two hours longer, and the guests danced until the wee hours of the morning.

Everyone seemed to be having a grand time except me. William was drunk, and fell a couple of times on the dance floor. He spilled red wine on my wedding dress, and I cried.