I felt like writing something depressing. Figured if this doesn't make someone a little depressed (sad) then I didn't do it right.
She lies there, blinking in the darkness, tears wetting her cheeks. She coughs softly and the pain in her chest burns and blooms. She cringes and her muscles stretch and pull, feeling and agonizing. Sitting up she feels her wrists, running fingers on her skin to feel for any push of pain. It isn’t until her soft touch lingers on her cheek, just below her right eye, that it makes her wince. She looks about, the darkness in the room already something she is used to. There is a broken beer bottle, shards of glass on the carpet, a burning cigarette smoldering on the couch cushion. She stands, rights the lamp, tries to turn it on and finds the bulb was also a casualty. So with the light from the hallways peaking through the cracks of the door she gingerly picks up the shards to deposit them carefully into the wastebasket next to the small desk in the living room. The room smells of beer and smoke and she picks up the butt and tosses it into the trash bin, watching it burn some before the embers fade to darkness. Light fills the room and a voice is heard. Turning she sees him, watching her. His silhouette is all that she wants and desires, a strong man who will protect her. If only.
“I’m sorry,” his voice is broken, she can hear that. She doesn’t move, afraid of what he will do. He steps to her, hands reaching for her. She winces some, afraid. Pain blossoms on her arm as he gingerly pulls her close repeating, “I’m so sorry.”
Tears come unbidden to her eyes, wetting her cheeks as he holds her close. Tenderly. Oh God, if only he held her like this all the time. She shook, sobbing, aching in places where he had laid his hands on her. His hands now of a different man, caressed her back, up her spine, through her bloodied thin tee shirt. Her own come down on his shoulders to hold him closer, to love him even more. Forgiving him once more because she knows she will forgive him a million times over for just these moments. He kisses her cheek, her nose, her eyelid, her forehead on the left side of her face, mindful of the swelling bruise on her right. He then places his rough lips to hers tongue sneaking to touch her lip and it’s warm and promising. And somewhere in the back of her head she tries to remind herself of broken promises, over and over again, but they disappear as he pulls her tight. They fight with each other as the heat grows within them and she moans softly, wrapping legs around his waist, allowing him to push through the door, up the steps and to the bed where he is a kind, thoughtful, and caring man.
She awakes in the morning, eye swollen shut. Sex lingers on the sheets and in the air. He’s gone, she notices, as she pulls his pillow close to her to hug it. At least nothing was broken this time. After several long minutes she gets up from the sheets to visit the bathroom, to confront the mirror. She studies herself with one opened eye. It’s blue and black, and a bit green around the edges from a faded bruise underneath, but it isn’t as bad as last time. Pulling up her hair she notices a cut with dried blood just into the hairline. She spends some time carefully cleaning the cut with alcohol, wincing with the stinging of the medication. Brushing her teeth, she rocks one with her tongue, feeling its looseness. Hopefully she can avoid it being knocked out so that the gums can stabilize it. She was already missing one; another would only make it worse.
Downstairs she begins to make lunch, knowing he will be home soon to eat. She is nervous though, she didn’t get to ask him what he wanted to eat before he left. She couldn’t not make something; that would only get her in more trouble. So she stood, flipping the grilled cheese, hoping that it would be okay. The spear dill pickle was already cut into small bites on the plate with some Doritos, awaiting the sandwich. She wonders if double cheese would be enough. The front door slams and she is startled, lurching forward some, burning her hand on the edge of the pan. She instantly drops the spatula, shaking her hand, holding it in her other as he enters the kitchen. She watches him glare at her.
“Can’t even make lunch without fucking up?”
It hurts. Not just the burn, but his words. She shakes slightly as she leans down to pick up the spatula. A blister has already formed on the side of her pinky, but she washes the utensil in cold water before drying it to flip the sandwich again. By this time he has settled in at the table, pushing through a stack of magazines, finding a nudie one and flipping open the pages. As she is turning the sandwich she panics to see the bottom turned black. She shuts her eyes for a moment as she lifts the sandwich, praying that he is in a good mood and that it will go unnoticed. She sets it onto the plate, cuts it in half, diagonal. She sets it on the table before him, grabbing a cold beer from the fridge, opening the bottle and setting it down as well. She begins to clean up, scrubbing the cheese from the frying pan.
His chair scrapes against the floor and she cringes, her eyes shutting, her shoulders fall in defeat. The sandwich hits the glass of the window in front of her. As it falls it knocks down a small plant, some soap, and a decorative soap holder. It hits the counter, bouncing to the edge, falling, and breaking. A scream erupts from him from behind her. It is almost instantly that he’s standing behind her, his hand in her hair, pulling. Looking at the ceiling as it begins to blur from tears she begins to pray, as she always does.
“Can’t even make a goddamn sandwich without…”
Lord, lead me through this. Help me to be stronger for us.
“You thought I wouldn’t see that you were to incapable of…”
Help me to be a better person. I love him so much Lord.
“If you were a better wife I wouldn’t complain…”
Help me to be a better wife. I just want to please him.
“Then you break a fucking glass. Why should I buy…”
Dear Lord, help me to be wiser.
It was then that her head slams into the edge of the cabinet. Hot, metallic liquid seeps into her mouth as it drips down her face. He swings her around, grabbing her wrist, yanking backwards. She yelps, or maybe she doesn’t, she isn’t sure, for the room is spinning. He shakes her, screaming, but the words sound far away. She blinks, trying to push through the heavy ringing. Her neck suddenly begins burning from a familiar injury, a pulled muscle or one that has tightened. He releases her and her knees give out, she drops along the cabinet, her head leaning heavily against the pine colored doors. She cannot seem to grasp at anything, her grip weakened. With her shaking hand she touches her face, rubs her blood between her fingers, wonders if the wound is really that bad. The darkness grows at the edges, pulling at her limbs and mind. Her hands fall to the floor, feeling the cold against her knuckles she tries to speak. But her words are forever lost on her lips, her last thoughts of the baby. Feebly, her left hand comes to rest on her gut, her thumb slowly moving, as if secretly caressing it.
Lord, take us into your arms.
