Flowers

A Story by Lizzie

A short story about domestic abuse

Flowers

By: Lizzie

He brought me flowers today. It’s not my birthday or any special holiday. When he came home last night, he smelled of cheap whiskey, and old cigars. He had been drinking again. I cooked spaghetti for dinner. The moon was well out by the time he came home, so when he was ready to eat, the temperature of the food had dropped and was bordering on cold. It’s my fault. I know he likes his food hot, and I made the mistake of not heating it up. He didn’t mean it.

“Sweetie, can you bring me a beer with my dinner?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied.

“WHAT THE F**K?!”

“What’s wrong?” I asked as I rushed to his side with the beer.

“Why is my food cold?!”

“Oh-I-I I’m �" sorry, I didn’t know-I forgot to heat it-“

“D****t Tish! You never do anything right!” he screamed as I watched the cold spaghetti fly out of his mouth like water from a hydrant.

“Honey, it’s just a little under room temperature; I didn’t know that it was that cold,” I stuttered.

As he stood, his face was a sunset of colors, most prominent of which was red. I vomited apologies out of my mouth, but no matter how many I threw his way, his face remained stone. He began to stagger towards me, mumbling expletives the whole way.

“No good wife of mine….w***e…s**t…”

Every stumbling step he took forward, I took three back until there was nowhere else to go. My back was flush against the wall and I was frozen with fear. When he finally reached me, he seized me by my blouse. I didn’t see his fist come towards me, but I felt it. I cried out as the friction and force of his fist tore open the skin where my eye meets my cheek. As I laid on the ground, I felt a warm trickle of blood run down my face and create a small angry puddle on the floor. Immediately, a multitude of colors that should not be on anyone’s skin formed on the face of the woman he promised to love and to cherish.

When I looked up from where I had fallen to the floor, a shadow was standing over me. As I looked into its face, a mixture of shame, sadness, strength and power played across its features.

The shadow apologized for hitting me. I accepted it. It told me that it loved me. I needed to believe it.

I did believe it.

He brought me flowers today. It’s not our anniversary or any other special day. This morning I woke up late. I flew over to our wardrobe and threw on the first thing that I laid my eyes on. When I made my way into the kitchen, he was already sitting at the table. His hands were clenching the morning newspaper, and his back was rim rod straight. I knew he was angry; I was late with breakfast, and he is not a patient man.

“Good morning honey,” I said.

I was greeted with a scowl.

I immediately started bustling around the kitchen. When I was finished preparing the food, my hands shook like a wet dog in winter, and my brow was slick with sweat. As I placed his sunny side up eggs and lightly buttered toast on the table, I misjudged the distance between the plate and his coffee, so as I set the plate down in front of him, it hit the cup and sent the sweet brown liquid onto the floor.

I immediately got a dishrag from the kitchen sink and ran to the offending spot on the floor. I was looking up to utter a mouthful of apologies, but I didn’t even get one word out before his hand greeted the side of my face. My cheek stung from the force of his palm. Suddenly, I got a warm feeling that started in the pit of my stomach and traveled up to my throat. I let out an inhumane growl, ready to hurl all of my pent up emotions and anger his way, but before I knew it, my head hit the wall with enough force to make my brain rattle around in my skull. His hands were around my neck.

I gasped as my lungs struggled for air. My eyes were wide with fear as small broken gasps escaped my throat. My eyes started watering and I could feel myself slowly slipping away into blissful unconsciousness, but was brought back to harsh reality when he suddenly released me. I fell, coughing and gasping onto the floor.

He had colored my neck with his hands. My body was a canvas, and he was the artist.

Later that night, as I looked in the mirror, he came up behind me and his lips tenderly traced the outline of his artwork around my neck, mumbling apologies, begging for me to forgive him.

I knew he was sorry because he got me flowers today.

He brought me flowers today. Today is a very special day. When the preacher finished speaking on the meaning of life after death, people started to shuffle away from the 6ft hole in the ground and towards their cars.

He came up to my closed casket with tear filled eyes and placed my flowers next to the picture of me that I always said my nose looked too big in. He bowed his head and the tears slipped from his eyes and pattered on the smooth mahogany like rain on a window.

He told me he was sorry. I believed it. He told me he loved me. I didn’t.

Maybe if I’d had courage. Maybe if I didn’t love him so much. Maybe if I had known what was coming.

Maybe then I wouldn’t have gotten flowers today.

© 2016 Lizzie

Author's Note

What do you think of the style? Is there anything in the story or in my writing that needs improvement? What do you think about the story structure?

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Samantha Anabella

Um... To be honest it was like watching a train crash. You know how you want to look away but you can't I got the same feeling... Ha! But that's good! It means that you kept my attention even though it was the most freakin depressed story I ever read... But others who enjoy these type of stories would love it and others can take it to heart knowing that you should always face the truth and be careful no matter what joy you might get out of it.
If you ever get a chance check out my book, thanks! Welcome to Writers Cafe!