The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 15
The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 15
This is my entry for Week 15 of LJ Idol (
therealljidol).
Prompt: "Just put a bandaid on it...!"
TW: Abuse
I know I'm taking a risk writing something that some people will understandably opt out of reading, but the prompt spoke to me on a very personal level and once it was in my head I just could not find the inspiration to write about anything else. I hope that those who can will read and those who can't know that their decision is very much respected and understood.
The 1st Time
The air is frigid and a strong breeze whips my skirt around my knees, but I stay planted on the porch, shuffling from one heeled foot to the other. The street is bathed in darkness, but ours is the only house on the block without a single light on. It's unwelcoming and cold and I can feel my heart begin to thump faster in my chest. Gripping my keys tightly in my fist, I shiver, but it's not triggered by the seasonal January weather. Something much more ominous lies beyond the threshold and it's making the blood in my veins turn to ice.
I consider turning around and descending the stairs, going back to my warm car and driving off. I could spend the night at my parent's place or maybe even Becca's, but I know that I'll only be prolonging the inevitable and the consequences will only be that much more severe. I readjust my grip on the keys and convince myself it will be better to just accept my punishment and get it over with as soon as possible.
I quietly let myself into the house and close the door behind me, cringing as the lock latches into place with a click. The sound seems to echo like an explosion against my ears and I can feel the color drain from my face. I hold my breath and wait, my hand still glued tightly to the knob, but nothing happens. A painfully desperate sliver of hope pricks at my insides. Maybe you're asleep. Maybe you haven't noticed it's after midnight when I said I'd be home by ten. Maybe I can inconspicuously slip in and avoid any confrontation at all.
Just like the outside, the inside is completely cloaked in darkness. It's more disorienting, however, to be without the glow of the moonlight and so I feel my way across the foyer, sliding my fingers along the wall to steady my steps. I could flip on the hall light, but I don't dare. Instead, I hold my breath and inch across the rug, gripping my keys so tightly that they stab into my palm. The hallway seems to stretch on for miles and it's an agonizingly long journey to the living room. By the time I reach the doorway, my eyes have adjusted to the dark, but I still don't have the chance see you coming. I've only just rounded the corner, but it seems you've been ready and waiting there for awhile.
Your knuckles connect with my jaw and I go reeling back into the hall. The blow is unexpected and strong and even though my anxiety has heightened my senses, I've had no forewarning of your presence. My ankles wobble over my heels and I trip, my back connecting hard with the wall behind me. I slide down to the carpet and then slump over to my side with my arms over my head and my eyes scrunched closed. I'm like a wounded animal playing dead. I want to sink into the floor, to disappear, to open my eyes and be in my warm, safe bed having a bad dream, but the reality of the situation is sobering.
You've never hit me before. Not like this. You've screamed at me and pushed me and even slapped me a few times, but you've never taken a close-fisted swing at me before. My heart is wrenched in terror and my brain is positively swimming, desperately trying to make sense of this ridiculous alternate reality I seem to have stumbled into.
"Get up," you say, and I do, even though my head is spinning and my face is throbbing and I feel completely and utterly bewildered. "It's twelve fucking seventeen."
I nod, but say nothing. It's as if you've punched the words clear out of me, and I'm not even sure if I can open my mouth anyway. My jaw is hot and screaming in silent agony and all I can think about is how badly I want to be back out on the porch, still weighing my options.
"Let's go to bed."
I nod again, but you've already turned your back to me and started stomping off towards our shared bedroom. My right ankle aches as I hobble after you and I realize I must have twisted it in the fall. I'm such a clutz, I think to myself, and for some reason, this is the singular thought that makes the tears well up. I shake my head slightly and grit my teeth as I climb under the sheets next to you, refusing to cry.
I awaken to the sounds and smells of frying bacon and the sensation of having been hit in the face by a metal bat. The memories of the night before rush back to me and I tentatively flex my jaw with a wince. It feels like a golfball has formed under my skin, but I'm surprised when I check the bathroom mirror to see there's not much visual evidence of the blow, save for a round, black, knuckle-sized bruise. I go through my usual morning routine, pop a few aspirin and then shuffle out to the kitchen where you're busy preparing breakfast - a rarity for a weekday morning and a complete admission of your guilt.
"Good morning!" you say brightly. I slink quietly into a chair at the kitchen table and watch you serve us both a plate of bacon, eggs and toast. "How was your party?"
"It wasn't a party," I answer softly. The act of speaking makes my jaw ache, but I try to ignore the sting. "A vendor took us out after work. I was able to make a lot of really good connections. My boss said I made a very good impression and that they specifically asked to continue working with me on their future orders."
"That's great, babe! Of course they love you!" you exclaim with a mouth full of half-chewed egg.
"Yeah," I say quietly. I push a piece of bacon around with my finger. It's floppy and under-cooked. I hate floppy, under-cooked bacon. "I'm sorry I was home later than I said I would be. It would have been rude of me to leave earlier."
You drop your toast crust onto your plate and I flinch unexpectedly. Something akin to horror and regret and maybe even tears pool in your eyes and I find myself feeling oddly remorseful.
"I'm so sorry," you say as you drop your head into your hands. "I'm so sorry about last night. I just missed you so much and... and... that wasn't me. That wasn't the real me. I love you."
I feel my body rise up off the chair and move to your side before I've even made the conscious effort to do so. The movements feel strange and robotic, but I'm suddenly wrapping my arms around your shoulders and hugging you to me. My jaw throbs in protest as I comfort you.
"It won't ever happen again," you cry.
"I know." I give you one more tight squeeze and then start to release you and move away, but you grab my wrist, gently, and keep me close.
"Babe?"
"Yes?"
"Would you mind putting a band-aid on..." You gesture towards my face and I instinctively reach up and touch the place where you hit me.
"It's just a small bruise,' I say. I attempt a reassuring smile, but it's halfhearted and I'm sure it shows.
"I know, but I just don't want to have any rumors start. I wouldn't want anything to ruin all the goodwill you've got going with your boss now."
I agree.
The Nth Time
I already know it's coming and my stomach twists anxiously as I try to distract myself with cleaning up the kitchen. It's a typical September Sunday and your friends have been over all day watching the game and making a ruckus in our living room, but they're grabbing their things and shuffling towards the door now, even though my brain is silently begging for them to stay.
Your team lost, again, and I over-cooked the potato skins. I also forgot the sour cream and dared to ask if anyone needed another beer during a very important play. After my inturruption, you glared at me in a familiar way that made my skin crawl and my blood run cold. It's odd how I can be so used to this and also so... not. I have a girl's night out planned with some friends for tomorrow and so I'm hoping you'll avoid my face. Their prying questions and my feeble excuses are uncomfortable for everyone and I'd much rather be able to just avoid the whole charade of me pretending I'm fine and them pretending to believe me.
Your friends call out farewells from the hallway and thank us for the hospitality and then I hear the door click closed and for a few seconds it goes eerily silent. Then you stomp down the hall, heavy-footed from the alcohol, and return to the living room. I hear the couch groan as you add your weight to it and then the sound of the tv flicking on and I breathe a small sigh of relief. Although I've gotten very good at reading you and anticipating your reactions, sometimes the moment passes and your anger subsides and things stay good for a little while longer. The possibility elevates my spirits and I focus on preparing dinner, letting my guard down just enough so that I don't hear it when you get up and enter the kitchen behind me.
I'm chopping carrots when you clear your throat, demanding my attention, and I've barely turned around when you lumber towards me with your arm extended. I feel an unfamiliar crack across my cheek and instantly the pain begins to blossom, blurring my vision. It happens so quickly that I'm completely and utterly stunned by it. I never even have a chance to see the remote control gripped in your fist until you pull it back away from my face. The world feels suddenly lopsided and I drop the knife. It hits the floor with a deafening clang and I brace myself against the counter as the kitchen spins.
Familiar... the instant feeling of pain and humiliation and anger and fear.
Unfamiliar... the wet trickle rolling slowly down my cheek
Familiar... your expression, a perverse mix of rage and regret.
My fingers move to my face and when I pull them away they're stained red. You caught me right across the cheekbone and split the soft skin there. It's the first time you've ever drawn blood and it makes the edges of my vision go dark. I sway and then sink slowly to the floor, holding my face and looking up at you.
For a moment you sway on your feet a bit yourself and I wonder if you might comfort me, but then your mouth twists into a snarl.
"Just put a band-aid on it," you spit, and then you leave the room.
You don't apologize or cry like you once did, but by the time dinner rolls around, you're bright and chipper and offering me compliments on my cooking. You're acting as though it never happened. The large welt on my cheek and the bandage attempting pathetically to cover it, however, are a clear sign that it did. More than that, I'm smiling and laughing, which would seem to lend credibility to your version of events, but you don't know that my good spirits are genuine. I've made a choice and I'm done pretending.
The Last Time
I wash my face in the bathroom sink and then stare at the strange reflection in the mirror. The bruised, battered girl beneath the makeup looks back at me, rough around the edges in ways she shouldn't be at twenty-four. My face aches with both new and old, phantom pains, but my heart feels light and full of hope. Of course, there's an edge of fear, but fear is something I've grown so accustomed to that it's more comforting than alarming.
I throw my hair into a high ponytail. Over the past year and a half, I've learned how to style it in ways that cover has much of my face as possible, but tonight I want you to see it in all of it's resilient glory. I feel empowered and strong and, more than anything, I feel ready. Unceremoniously, I flip off the light and exit the bathroom. I don't need a pep-talk or a few more moments to collect my thoughts. I don't need to hide or buy some time or empty an unsettled, churning stomach.
I do spend a few moments giving the bedroom another once over, making sure I haven't forgotten anything important. I've been surreptitiously bringing my possessions and clothes over to Becca's for two weeks now, but I still have three bags worth of my things packed and waiting on the bed. I anticipate you'll fly into a rage like never before when you see this and register what it represents, but I'm ready for it. The angrier the better. Might as well go out with a bang.
As usual, I'm preparing dinner when you arrive home from work. I hear you remove your shoes in the hallway before calling out to me.
"Just me, babe! Smells great in here!"
You enter the kitchen and wrap your arms around my waist, hugging me from behind.
"I like your hair like this," you say before pressing a kiss against the back of my neck. I don't miss the irony in the fact that the reason I rarely wear my hair pulled back like this is because of you.
Your affectionate gestures are just as familiar as your abusive ones. Because, truth be told, when you aren't beating the shit out of me, you're loving me in all the right and expected ways. That's why I've stayed. That's why I've wavered. Until now.
I fight the urge to shudder with disgust and twirl away from you instead, making a show of having to retrieve an ingredient from the refrigerator.
"Need any help?"
"Nope. Almost ready."
You give me a thumbs up and back out of the kitchen with a grin that I once found charming, but now only see as contrived and phony. I know you'll head to the bedroom now to change into something more comfortable and my heart begins to race with the knowledge of your imminent discovery.
I chop broccoli with a steady hand, my ears straining to hear any sound that might give you away, but it's silent for longer than I expect and I begin to worry that you either didn't notice or are chosing to exercise your expert skill of pretending that something isn't there. But then it happens.
"Uh, babe?"
Your voice is gentle and questioning to the untrained ear, but I recognize a familiar edge that gives away your growing anger. When I don't answer, I hear you opening and slamming drawers and then the closet doors.
"What the fuck?" You shout now and then I hear your heavy footsteps getting louder as you approach the kitchen. Unfazed, I continue chopping broccoli.
"You want to tell me what's going on? What the fuck you're doing? Are you leaving me?" You're screaming at me from the doorway and the tone is familiar, but it's a half an octave higher than normal and more shrill than I ever remember. You're panicked and torn and not quite sure if you should approach the situation as Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde. "Baby?"
"I am." I answer. My voice is steady and sure.
"The fuck?"
Even before I see or hear you, I know you're coming at me, lurching towards me in that bumbling fit of uncontrolled, exploding rage like you always do. Both arms are stretched out and I think you might be intending to go for my throat, but you never reach me. I twirl around and this time I don't drop the knife. Instead, I grip it tightly in my hand and jab the sharp end out at you, slicing you in the side. It's not very deep, but it's deep enough to surprise and wound you and immediately you crumple to your knees, clutching your middle. Your face is stark white and contorted with shock when you look up at me, all the anger gone and replaced by pure bewilderment, but I don't soften. Instead, I keep the knife held out in front of me - threatening you, warning you, daring you - as I inch towards the door.
"What did you do? I... babe..." You look down and see a dark crimson spot blooming across your shirt. It's not much, really, but it's enough to frighten you and you let out a strangled, pleading sob. "Don't go! It hurts."
I shake my head at you as you pathetically writhe around the kitchen floor sniffling.
"Put a fucking band-aid on it," I say, and then I'm gone.
If you are so moved, please give me a vote over at
therealljidol this week. Also, check out all the entries from Team Norbert and give them a vote as well!
This is my entry for Week 15 of LJ Idol (
therealljidol).
Prompt: "Just put a bandaid on it...!"
TW: Abuse
I know I'm taking a risk writing something that some people will understandably opt out of reading, but the prompt spoke to me on a very personal level and once it was in my head I just could not find the inspiration to write about anything else. I hope that those who can will read and those who can't know that their decision is very much respected and understood.
The 1st Time
The air is frigid and a strong breeze whips my skirt around my knees, but I stay planted on the porch, shuffling from one heeled foot to the other. The street is bathed in darkness, but ours is the only house on the block without a single light on. It's unwelcoming and cold and I can feel my heart begin to thump faster in my chest. Gripping my keys tightly in my fist, I shiver, but it's not triggered by the seasonal January weather. Something much more ominous lies beyond the threshold and it's making the blood in my veins turn to ice.
I consider turning around and descending the stairs, going back to my warm car and driving off. I could spend the night at my parent's place or maybe even Becca's, but I know that I'll only be prolonging the inevitable and the consequences will only be that much more severe. I readjust my grip on the keys and convince myself it will be better to just accept my punishment and get it over with as soon as possible.
I quietly let myself into the house and close the door behind me, cringing as the lock latches into place with a click. The sound seems to echo like an explosion against my ears and I can feel the color drain from my face. I hold my breath and wait, my hand still glued tightly to the knob, but nothing happens. A painfully desperate sliver of hope pricks at my insides. Maybe you're asleep. Maybe you haven't noticed it's after midnight when I said I'd be home by ten. Maybe I can inconspicuously slip in and avoid any confrontation at all.
Just like the outside, the inside is completely cloaked in darkness. It's more disorienting, however, to be without the glow of the moonlight and so I feel my way across the foyer, sliding my fingers along the wall to steady my steps. I could flip on the hall light, but I don't dare. Instead, I hold my breath and inch across the rug, gripping my keys so tightly that they stab into my palm. The hallway seems to stretch on for miles and it's an agonizingly long journey to the living room. By the time I reach the doorway, my eyes have adjusted to the dark, but I still don't have the chance see you coming. I've only just rounded the corner, but it seems you've been ready and waiting there for awhile.
Your knuckles connect with my jaw and I go reeling back into the hall. The blow is unexpected and strong and even though my anxiety has heightened my senses, I've had no forewarning of your presence. My ankles wobble over my heels and I trip, my back connecting hard with the wall behind me. I slide down to the carpet and then slump over to my side with my arms over my head and my eyes scrunched closed. I'm like a wounded animal playing dead. I want to sink into the floor, to disappear, to open my eyes and be in my warm, safe bed having a bad dream, but the reality of the situation is sobering.
You've never hit me before. Not like this. You've screamed at me and pushed me and even slapped me a few times, but you've never taken a close-fisted swing at me before. My heart is wrenched in terror and my brain is positively swimming, desperately trying to make sense of this ridiculous alternate reality I seem to have stumbled into.
"Get up," you say, and I do, even though my head is spinning and my face is throbbing and I feel completely and utterly bewildered. "It's twelve fucking seventeen."
I nod, but say nothing. It's as if you've punched the words clear out of me, and I'm not even sure if I can open my mouth anyway. My jaw is hot and screaming in silent agony and all I can think about is how badly I want to be back out on the porch, still weighing my options.
"Let's go to bed."
I nod again, but you've already turned your back to me and started stomping off towards our shared bedroom. My right ankle aches as I hobble after you and I realize I must have twisted it in the fall. I'm such a clutz, I think to myself, and for some reason, this is the singular thought that makes the tears well up. I shake my head slightly and grit my teeth as I climb under the sheets next to you, refusing to cry.
I awaken to the sounds and smells of frying bacon and the sensation of having been hit in the face by a metal bat. The memories of the night before rush back to me and I tentatively flex my jaw with a wince. It feels like a golfball has formed under my skin, but I'm surprised when I check the bathroom mirror to see there's not much visual evidence of the blow, save for a round, black, knuckle-sized bruise. I go through my usual morning routine, pop a few aspirin and then shuffle out to the kitchen where you're busy preparing breakfast - a rarity for a weekday morning and a complete admission of your guilt.
"Good morning!" you say brightly. I slink quietly into a chair at the kitchen table and watch you serve us both a plate of bacon, eggs and toast. "How was your party?"
"It wasn't a party," I answer softly. The act of speaking makes my jaw ache, but I try to ignore the sting. "A vendor took us out after work. I was able to make a lot of really good connections. My boss said I made a very good impression and that they specifically asked to continue working with me on their future orders."
"That's great, babe! Of course they love you!" you exclaim with a mouth full of half-chewed egg.
"Yeah," I say quietly. I push a piece of bacon around with my finger. It's floppy and under-cooked. I hate floppy, under-cooked bacon. "I'm sorry I was home later than I said I would be. It would have been rude of me to leave earlier."
You drop your toast crust onto your plate and I flinch unexpectedly. Something akin to horror and regret and maybe even tears pool in your eyes and I find myself feeling oddly remorseful.
"I'm so sorry," you say as you drop your head into your hands. "I'm so sorry about last night. I just missed you so much and... and... that wasn't me. That wasn't the real me. I love you."
I feel my body rise up off the chair and move to your side before I've even made the conscious effort to do so. The movements feel strange and robotic, but I'm suddenly wrapping my arms around your shoulders and hugging you to me. My jaw throbs in protest as I comfort you.
"It won't ever happen again," you cry.
"I know." I give you one more tight squeeze and then start to release you and move away, but you grab my wrist, gently, and keep me close.
"Babe?"
"Yes?"
"Would you mind putting a band-aid on..." You gesture towards my face and I instinctively reach up and touch the place where you hit me.
"It's just a small bruise,' I say. I attempt a reassuring smile, but it's halfhearted and I'm sure it shows.
"I know, but I just don't want to have any rumors start. I wouldn't want anything to ruin all the goodwill you've got going with your boss now."
I agree.
The Nth Time
I already know it's coming and my stomach twists anxiously as I try to distract myself with cleaning up the kitchen. It's a typical September Sunday and your friends have been over all day watching the game and making a ruckus in our living room, but they're grabbing their things and shuffling towards the door now, even though my brain is silently begging for them to stay.
Your team lost, again, and I over-cooked the potato skins. I also forgot the sour cream and dared to ask if anyone needed another beer during a very important play. After my inturruption, you glared at me in a familiar way that made my skin crawl and my blood run cold. It's odd how I can be so used to this and also so... not. I have a girl's night out planned with some friends for tomorrow and so I'm hoping you'll avoid my face. Their prying questions and my feeble excuses are uncomfortable for everyone and I'd much rather be able to just avoid the whole charade of me pretending I'm fine and them pretending to believe me.
Your friends call out farewells from the hallway and thank us for the hospitality and then I hear the door click closed and for a few seconds it goes eerily silent. Then you stomp down the hall, heavy-footed from the alcohol, and return to the living room. I hear the couch groan as you add your weight to it and then the sound of the tv flicking on and I breathe a small sigh of relief. Although I've gotten very good at reading you and anticipating your reactions, sometimes the moment passes and your anger subsides and things stay good for a little while longer. The possibility elevates my spirits and I focus on preparing dinner, letting my guard down just enough so that I don't hear it when you get up and enter the kitchen behind me.
I'm chopping carrots when you clear your throat, demanding my attention, and I've barely turned around when you lumber towards me with your arm extended. I feel an unfamiliar crack across my cheek and instantly the pain begins to blossom, blurring my vision. It happens so quickly that I'm completely and utterly stunned by it. I never even have a chance to see the remote control gripped in your fist until you pull it back away from my face. The world feels suddenly lopsided and I drop the knife. It hits the floor with a deafening clang and I brace myself against the counter as the kitchen spins.
Familiar... the instant feeling of pain and humiliation and anger and fear.
Unfamiliar... the wet trickle rolling slowly down my cheek
Familiar... your expression, a perverse mix of rage and regret.
My fingers move to my face and when I pull them away they're stained red. You caught me right across the cheekbone and split the soft skin there. It's the first time you've ever drawn blood and it makes the edges of my vision go dark. I sway and then sink slowly to the floor, holding my face and looking up at you.
For a moment you sway on your feet a bit yourself and I wonder if you might comfort me, but then your mouth twists into a snarl.
"Just put a band-aid on it," you spit, and then you leave the room.
You don't apologize or cry like you once did, but by the time dinner rolls around, you're bright and chipper and offering me compliments on my cooking. You're acting as though it never happened. The large welt on my cheek and the bandage attempting pathetically to cover it, however, are a clear sign that it did. More than that, I'm smiling and laughing, which would seem to lend credibility to your version of events, but you don't know that my good spirits are genuine. I've made a choice and I'm done pretending.
The Last Time
I wash my face in the bathroom sink and then stare at the strange reflection in the mirror. The bruised, battered girl beneath the makeup looks back at me, rough around the edges in ways she shouldn't be at twenty-four. My face aches with both new and old, phantom pains, but my heart feels light and full of hope. Of course, there's an edge of fear, but fear is something I've grown so accustomed to that it's more comforting than alarming.
I throw my hair into a high ponytail. Over the past year and a half, I've learned how to style it in ways that cover has much of my face as possible, but tonight I want you to see it in all of it's resilient glory. I feel empowered and strong and, more than anything, I feel ready. Unceremoniously, I flip off the light and exit the bathroom. I don't need a pep-talk or a few more moments to collect my thoughts. I don't need to hide or buy some time or empty an unsettled, churning stomach.
I do spend a few moments giving the bedroom another once over, making sure I haven't forgotten anything important. I've been surreptitiously bringing my possessions and clothes over to Becca's for two weeks now, but I still have three bags worth of my things packed and waiting on the bed. I anticipate you'll fly into a rage like never before when you see this and register what it represents, but I'm ready for it. The angrier the better. Might as well go out with a bang.
As usual, I'm preparing dinner when you arrive home from work. I hear you remove your shoes in the hallway before calling out to me.
"Just me, babe! Smells great in here!"
You enter the kitchen and wrap your arms around my waist, hugging me from behind.
"I like your hair like this," you say before pressing a kiss against the back of my neck. I don't miss the irony in the fact that the reason I rarely wear my hair pulled back like this is because of you.
Your affectionate gestures are just as familiar as your abusive ones. Because, truth be told, when you aren't beating the shit out of me, you're loving me in all the right and expected ways. That's why I've stayed. That's why I've wavered. Until now.
I fight the urge to shudder with disgust and twirl away from you instead, making a show of having to retrieve an ingredient from the refrigerator.
"Need any help?"
"Nope. Almost ready."
You give me a thumbs up and back out of the kitchen with a grin that I once found charming, but now only see as contrived and phony. I know you'll head to the bedroom now to change into something more comfortable and my heart begins to race with the knowledge of your imminent discovery.
I chop broccoli with a steady hand, my ears straining to hear any sound that might give you away, but it's silent for longer than I expect and I begin to worry that you either didn't notice or are chosing to exercise your expert skill of pretending that something isn't there. But then it happens.
"Uh, babe?"
Your voice is gentle and questioning to the untrained ear, but I recognize a familiar edge that gives away your growing anger. When I don't answer, I hear you opening and slamming drawers and then the closet doors.
"What the fuck?" You shout now and then I hear your heavy footsteps getting louder as you approach the kitchen. Unfazed, I continue chopping broccoli.
"You want to tell me what's going on? What the fuck you're doing? Are you leaving me?" You're screaming at me from the doorway and the tone is familiar, but it's a half an octave higher than normal and more shrill than I ever remember. You're panicked and torn and not quite sure if you should approach the situation as Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde. "Baby?"
"I am." I answer. My voice is steady and sure.
"The fuck?"
Even before I see or hear you, I know you're coming at me, lurching towards me in that bumbling fit of uncontrolled, exploding rage like you always do. Both arms are stretched out and I think you might be intending to go for my throat, but you never reach me. I twirl around and this time I don't drop the knife. Instead, I grip it tightly in my hand and jab the sharp end out at you, slicing you in the side. It's not very deep, but it's deep enough to surprise and wound you and immediately you crumple to your knees, clutching your middle. Your face is stark white and contorted with shock when you look up at me, all the anger gone and replaced by pure bewilderment, but I don't soften. Instead, I keep the knife held out in front of me - threatening you, warning you, daring you - as I inch towards the door.
"What did you do? I... babe..." You look down and see a dark crimson spot blooming across your shirt. It's not much, really, but it's enough to frighten you and you let out a strangled, pleading sob. "Don't go! It hurts."
I shake my head at you as you pathetically writhe around the kitchen floor sniffling.
"Put a fucking band-aid on it," I say, and then I'm gone.
If you are so moved, please give me a vote over at
therealljidol this week. Also, check out all the entries from Team Norbert and give them a vote as well!