I’m worried he might come home, might not come home. Might not. I should leave now, before he comes back. He’d find me again, I know he would, and this time it might mean a body bag instead of several days in hospital. It might mean that if I don’t. I’m so torn. This corset he insists on is starting to irritate. He tied it too tight this morning, and I can’t reach the strings. Where the fuck is he? Maybe he’s waiting to see if I care enough. He always says I’m a heartless, soulless bitch. He’s right, now I am. He made me this way.
Squealing tires. Someone is driving like a bat out of hell out there. Nowhere close though. We’re very isolated out here, with no interference he says. With no support or help he means, for me. I hate him. The nearest neighbour is three miles away, as the crow flies, and the couple elderly. When I ran last time, I went to them begging for help. The lady, brushed my hair from my face and said, your place is with your husband dear. If he hits you, then you must deserve it. I slapped her face and bolted for the door. The husband had already called him and he smiled, standing on the porch with a smug smile. They’ve both died since. Their house burned down. The new neighbours keep their opinions to themselves. He always says in that creepy ass serial killer voice “No one will hear you scream” while stroking my along my collarbone with that pocket knife he carries everywhere. It hasn’t happened this week.
7:44 PM I should run.
I pull my robe tighter around me, and loosen the tie, letting it drop to my sides. I might need to run. It might be easier without the robe. God I wish I could breath, this fucking corset is hurting me, cutting into my sides through the slits he made, after snapping the bones that hold it rigid. He insists that I wear it, so that I don’t look like a complete whale and that the cuts will keep me aware. I glance in the looking-glass that hangs on the wall, the one I’ve hated since the moment I laid eyes on it. I’ve let myself go some, it’s true. I didn’t think I was that unattractive, but the mirror doesn’t lie. Nor does it hide the scars. Never be without makeup, his mother told me once. You want to at least try to look close to human, instead of the dog faced girl. What he sees in you… He laughed. What a prick.
“Sorry I’m late. Office stuff. Steak smells great.” His hot breath is redolent with the scent of scotch and cigarettes, and he grabs me roughly around the waist, pressing his palms hard against my sides and yanking open my robe. He pulls the fabric from my body and tosses it across the room, my skin suddenly as cold as my blood. “Is it too much to ask to have my wife dressed in my favourite lingerie greet me at the fucking door?” he snarls with that growling tone I fear. It has teeth as much as the forceful groping I was receiving had claws. I stiffen against him, stifling a sob of fear as well as violation as his fingers viciously enter me, knowing full well it is causing me pain, his other hand clamping hard over my mouth and nose. I’ll be lucky to be able to move tomorrow, and know better than to fight, though my lungs burn and against my will so does my body, and I cum out of self-preservation. I have little doubt he’d kill me if I didn’t respond.
“That’s right. You love it.” His teeth bite hard on my shoulder and I want to scream denial, but I’m vain. He’s ruined my smile once already, he won’t get a second chance. “Say it. SAY. IT. I want to hear you say you loved it.” Tears of humiliation finally overspill and I shake my head, refusing to speak the words. Why do I have to say it. He knows I hate his touch. That it makes my skin crawl. “Lying whore!” he screams in my ear, thankfully unable to see that I am weeping.
The marble hearth is cold, it feels good on my flushed face, soothes the scalding tears that I just can’t hold back any longer. He keeps throwing me here, so close to the pointed wrought iron cover he bought for the fireplace he doesn’t use. He hates fire. I love fire. I’d like to shove the red hot poker up his ass. “Are you crying cunt?” He can’t see the tears. It’s worse if I cry. If I make a sound it’s so much worse. “Get up,” and my ribs explode in pain, “C’mon…it’s the anniversary of the best day of your life. No one else would touch you, did you know that? I took one for the team. Thank God you haven’t popped out any kids.” Thank God my body doesn’t tolerate the toxic fluids he insists on filling me with. I’d love to cut his balls off with a dull knife.
Inhale. It hurts. I hate him
Exhale. Sit up. I blow air through my teeth.
Inhale. I look up at him, standing there like the cock of the walk with his less than impressive tool barely erect and imagine clamping my teeth over it and ripping it off.
Exhale. “Do it right this time. And don’t you dare think of using your teeth or I’ll knock them out again.” His fingers find the soft spot just below my ear, digging in hard, and I yell out in pain. I’m rewarded with a mouth full of booze flaccid dick and his hand slamming my head into each thrust. My throat tries to close, and my stomach rises into it, threatening to spill its contents. I can’t breathe and I tear at his thighs with my nails as I push back hard and am released. The crack of my head on the floor makes my eyes rattle and throb. I wish I was dead. I wish he was dead.
He’s between my thighs, trying to stuff his waste of a penis into me, muttering under his breath that I am so ugly he can’t get a hard on. “Why don’t you have another drink?” My voice sounds blurry, slurred and pained as his fist first lands in my stomach, and then viciously on my pubic bone. I scream. I can’t help it and try to scratch his eyes from his head. His palm cracks across my cheek and he has hold of my throat, plowing his newly found erection over and over into my swollen center. There are black butterflies in the corners of my vision, their gossamer wings stealing more and more of my sight. My body vibrates uncontrollably, entwining my fight for air with natural responses. A last thrust and he explodes, spraying my insides as he laughs. I can’t breathe, my chest is on fire and I’m burning alive with it. The butterflies win
The silence is deafening. He’s gone, presumably to bed. Hopefully to hell. I’m on the floor and my body is sobbing in protest as roll to my side and push myself up. My middle hurts and I stifle a groan, the pulsing of my head stirring my stomach. No sound. Not one. Sounds get you hurt. Slowly I gain my feet using the edge of the flimsy kitchen table, my legs aching and threatening to spill me back to the floor. No noise. He must be asleep already. He drank my beer before he hurt me, standing over me as he downed the entire bottle. I’d laced it. It seems that to take hours to get down the short, narrow hallway the bathroom. I want a hot shower, to try and clean my skin of his touch. I’d use gasoline if I thought it would take the stench of his existence from my life. My head is pounding like a rotted tooth and I fight the urge to scream. Finally I reach the bathroom and nearly fall into the tub in desperation. The corset bites into my ribs now and I can hardly move. The hot water eases some of the ache but doesn’t deaden the small voice that is practically howling in my ears. Get out Go now. I just close my eyes and listen.
An empty vodka bottle sits on the table, the last two codeine tablets from my last “accident” ingested. I feel little and have less pain. My heart thuds dully, reminding me that I have much to fear. The hallway seems eternal as I quietly tread down the rough carpeting in my bare feet, my arm brushing the fake wood panelling he HAD to have. The memory of it makes my veins turn to fire. Strutting around, daring me to say a word. I could have argued, but my jaw was wired shut. Another lesson about respect he claimed. A lesson he needs to learn himself. I hesitate at the bedroom door, the light from the window diffused by the one thing I was allowed to give input on. The intense red, diaphanous curtains. When it rains, the dim light creates shadowy blood drips down the walls. Those nights I lay on my back and imagine them to be his, his head cracked like an egg while he visits his atrocities on my flesh and my soul.
He woke an hour ago, having dreamt that I tried to kill him in his sleep by stabbing him in the back. I laughed in his face, and told him I’m no coward, I’d stab him in the throat. He hit me with his fists, with his words, driving me back into the cabinets with his never ending folly. I got my hands on the iron, and slammed the fucker into his head. I’m now free of the corset. And heavy in cuts, bruises and I suspect a few cracked ribs. I got off easy this time. He was sleep slow.
He rolls onto his back, naked and still oozing blood from the sharp point of the irons impact. I hope he has a concussion. His hands clench in their sleep, and he mutters profanity and violations that I was sure were illegal. It didn’t matter. I climb on top of him, holding my weight just above his nude form, desperate not to make contact. In my hand I have a knife, the very same one he sliced through the corset with. The never rust, never stain, entirely steel, eversharp knife, and I press its point to his flabby throat, and push enough to bring a drop of blood. I wanted to shove it hard, knowing it would slide through the skin like butter. It opens his eyes and sees me with its favourite knife to its cowardly neck, and fights with its mouth. The point drawing blood from its neck gives it pause. But that’s not what bothers it. What bothers it is that I have its balls in the ricer that I had behind my back. The industrial ricer its whore mother gave me as a birthday gift, because my cooking was substandard. I squeeze, just a little, and the pansy screams, and then passes out.
I run then, as fast as my injuries would allow me, slowing only to grab my emergency bag from the kitchen table and the key to my car, and was on the road to freedom before he is able to rise. Tomorrow he will start his search with the usual suspects, and my time will be short. Until then….Inhale….
He’s still looking for me. One day, he will find me. And find I’m not the girl I used to be. I’m much much more.
October is Domestic Abuse Prevention Month – Stop The Violence