Accidents happen.

I'm sure he didn't mean for this to happen. I had just been a good girl, he wouldn’t have to hurt me like this. I know that. He told me so. If I had been better, I would have been okay. Right?

This was an accident, right? He couldn’t have possibly intended for this to happen.

I should not have argued. I should have sat quietly as he made his grievances, or even better, fixed them as they came. But I didn’t. I lost my temper, and it is very unbecoming of a housewife.

I hear the sound of wind whistling and flinch. His hand makes contact with the side of my head. My ear rings, and the sound of his yells are muffled on the left side of my head. It’ll be back in a few days. It always is. Besides, he didn’t mean it. He was just a little upset.

He’s glaring at me, and the fear is crippling. I know he’s angry. I should not have moved. He swings again, and this time I flinch his closed hand makes contact with my left eye. I walked into it. He didn’t mean it. I should have just behaved.

The blow knocks me back a few steps, and a strangled sob slips from my throat as I bump my shoulder into the wall, still sore from yesterday’s teachings. I cross my hands over my mouth, and hope he didn’t hear it. Judging by the way he saunters over and grabs the back of my neck, he heard it.

You’re crying? You think that hurt? You don’t know what hurt is. I’ll give you a reason to cry.

His grip tightens on the back of my neck, and I am slammed into the wall, once, twice, three times. He slams me to the ground, and the boot that I shined to perfection makes contact with my tummy, over and over, and over. He kicks me in my stomach when I’m bad to remind me that bad girls don’t get what they want, not even children. I don’t know if he wants them sometimes. He gets mad when I’m not pregnant, and kicks me when I am.

I can’t get air into my lungs. I’m gasping and screaming. He stops, and I slump over. The boot makes contact with my face, and I can feel my lip split. My vision is blurry, but I can see there is blood on his boot.

I reach forward and drag myself to the tile of the kitchen before I bleed on the carpet, the carpet I’ve been on hands and knees scrubbing. Only the best for my military man.

He pulls me back and sits me up by my hair.

You look a mess.

I’m sorry.

You’re bleeding on the carpet.

I’m sorry. May I please get on the tile?

He slaps me back to the ground, you’re already bleeding on it.

The carpet is soft and fluffy and cool. It smells like flowers and blood. It’s a bad combination, nauseating to my pregnant senses, and I try again to crawl to the tile just in time to reach for a bucket, once full off mop water, that has now been kicked over the floor.

That’s how this all started. He came in and kicked over the bucket, then blamed me because it was full. I tried to escape, but slipped on the puddle and fell, hitting my face. I look up and see his BDUs, my blood is splattered on the ankles. Seltzer water and cold water will get it out.

He pulls me up and shoves me, and my eyes flit to the door. Do we have seltzer water? No, I used the last of it last week. I reach for my keys, I need to get seltzer water. Can I go?

Is your head working? I can’t let you out like that. Besides, you might not come back.

He pulls out the knife he tucked into his belt. He’s had it since we were kids. It’s the first real sensation of fear, and for some reason, I run. I go through the backyard, I can still scale the fence, but his training makes him faster. The neighbors see me, and I scream. It’s a blood curdling sound, the loudest I can muster, until the air in my lungs runs out, and I breathe and I scream again, until he drags me down and slams my head into the fence once, twice, three times. He likes the number three. I bite my tongue and stop screaming. He stomps on my knee, and the pain is enough to get me screaming again. I try to hobble away on the good leg, but he drags me back inside, and the knife is still in his hand.

Why would you do that? After all I’ve done for you? This is how you repay me?

I open my mouth to speak, but I am cut off. His hand is fast, and the knife is huge, larger than legally can be carried.

Did you know that when you’re stabbed, it makes a sound? A slick sound, like when you step in a mud puddle. It’s that kind of sound. And it hurts, it hurts like…well, like being stabbed. Like you’re being ripped open.

But he didn’t mean to do it. He tells me so. He’s stomping around, and he’s waving the knife as he speaks. The knife still has my blood dripping from the end of it as I slide to the ground. Now there’s blood pooling on the tile and dripping on the carpet from the knife. It’s an odd sort of experience, you know, to see your own blood not only outside of your body, but dripping onto your clean, clean carpet that wasn’t clean enough, and onto the shiny marble counter that didn’t shine just right.

He tells me it’s not his fault. I know.

He says if too.

He tells me things like this all the time. All the bruises and broken bones and slaps and kicks, he did them because he loves me, but I’m bad. No one else will love me enough to discipline me, so I have to stay with him to make sure that I am perfectly perfect, although I don’t know when that will be.

His words become more muffled as the pain slowly starts to fade, and he begins to scream and kick. I hear sirens, soft and muffled in the background, but my mind is on one thing, the house and his happiness. I look around at the bloodied carpet and the puddle on the floor and the bucket with the vomit, and his dirty knife and boots and BDUs.

I lower my head to the carpet, and close my eyes.

He’s going to kill me when he sees this mess.

 

Author's Note

Just something quick I pounded out in the wake of a nightmare. Read and review :D

Reviews

[Jon Roggie]

Damn good.