LJ Idol, Topic 23: "Silence and Darkness" [fiction]
Weak.
Worthless.
Useless.
Stupid bitch.
She hunches her shoulders, pulling into her shell, preparing for another blow. He never hits. Says that any man who would beat up on a woman is total scum. He never even raises his voice to her. But the impacts come in an endless stream, nevertheless. The scorn in his tone, the carelessly tossed phrases, shred her protective armor like it was paper, scrawl bloody tracks across her psyche.
"What the hell is wrong with you? How could you be so dumb?"
She dreams, sometimes. Dreams of an endless golden field, a dusty trail leading away to the horizon. The wind tangles her hair. The sweat runs down her face, down the hollow of her throat. Her throat is parched, her feet ache, but her heart is singing. Her pack is light on her back; everything she owns, encapsulated within. Strange to think it would be so small.
But here, now, in this gray, austere house, with thunderclouds gathering on his brow, the dream shatters and falls in shards at her feet. Only a dream, nothing more. Where would she go? Hasn't he told her a million times, in a million different ways, that she's lucky to have him? Nobody else would take care of her like he does. Nobody else would give her a second glance. She's ugly, clumsy, stupid. She doesn't have any useful skills. She's worthless.
She puts on her best smile and repeats the old refrain: "I'm sorry, honey. I don't know why I keep screwing up." It mollifies him, and in a twinkling his good humor is restored. He ruffles her hair, puts a casual arm round her shoulders. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you," he says. "You really do drive me crazy, you know."
"I know," she says softly, another piece of her soul curling up like a dying spider.
******************
"Why do you make me do these things?" he says. Calmly. Reasonably. As if it were the simplest question in the world. He stands, eyes hooded, watching her like a snake ready to strike. He isn't even out of breath. Her blood trickles down his fists, patters in crimson droplets onto the carpet (and she knows she'll be blamed for that, too, later on).
She can't answer him for a minute, too busy cataloging her agonies. Her chest: icy spears stabbing her with each breath she tries to take. Something grinds and shift inside, and she wonders if he's sprung a couple of ribs this time. Her scalp: searing fire where he'd yanked her hair to pull her up for another punch. The left side of her face: ominously dead, already swelling anew from the latest onslaught. Her lips: split, mashed against her teeth over and over.
"Well? I'm waiting." He puts his hands to the small of his back, grimaces as he stretches. "Goddamn if you didn't give me a workout this time." He shakes his head.
Her brain is still rattling inside her skull. She aches all over, wants nothing more than to just curl up into a ball and weep. But tears will only fan the flames. She has to pull herself together and answer him.
"I.....don't know," she says brokenly. "Please, no more."
It's the right answer, of course. He looks down at her, his eyes flickering, flickering. His mouth is a hard line, his face a blank stone mask. He lifts a foot, and she cringes back against the wall, suddenly drowning in the flood of terror; if he starts in with the kicking this time, it isn't going to end until she passes out.
But no, he's just raising his foot to step over her where she lays. She hears him snort as he stands above her. "You look ridiculous," he jeers. "Go get cleaned up and then get my dinner." He turns on his heel and disappears into the bedroom.
She draws a deep breath. Knives in her chest. She chokes the sobs back, but a tear squeezes out despite her best efforts. She pushes against the wall, using it as a lever. Up, up. The world tilts and spins crazily, but soon enough she's standing, breath coming sharp and fast, vision blurring in and out. She makes her way to the table, sits down heavily in a chair. Gropes in her purse, her small hand closing tightly around cold steel. Draws out her salvation.
The clack of the chambered round is very loud in the stillness.
[This has been my entry for Week 23 of LJ Idol, for which the topic was "the weak force". This entry is dedicated to all the women who have been victims of abuse, whether mental, emotional or physical (or all three). Please check out the other participants' entries and show them some love as well.]
Worthless.
Useless.
Stupid bitch.
She hunches her shoulders, pulling into her shell, preparing for another blow. He never hits. Says that any man who would beat up on a woman is total scum. He never even raises his voice to her. But the impacts come in an endless stream, nevertheless. The scorn in his tone, the carelessly tossed phrases, shred her protective armor like it was paper, scrawl bloody tracks across her psyche.
"What the hell is wrong with you? How could you be so dumb?"
She dreams, sometimes. Dreams of an endless golden field, a dusty trail leading away to the horizon. The wind tangles her hair. The sweat runs down her face, down the hollow of her throat. Her throat is parched, her feet ache, but her heart is singing. Her pack is light on her back; everything she owns, encapsulated within. Strange to think it would be so small.
But here, now, in this gray, austere house, with thunderclouds gathering on his brow, the dream shatters and falls in shards at her feet. Only a dream, nothing more. Where would she go? Hasn't he told her a million times, in a million different ways, that she's lucky to have him? Nobody else would take care of her like he does. Nobody else would give her a second glance. She's ugly, clumsy, stupid. She doesn't have any useful skills. She's worthless.
She puts on her best smile and repeats the old refrain: "I'm sorry, honey. I don't know why I keep screwing up." It mollifies him, and in a twinkling his good humor is restored. He ruffles her hair, puts a casual arm round her shoulders. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you," he says. "You really do drive me crazy, you know."
"I know," she says softly, another piece of her soul curling up like a dying spider.
******************
"Why do you make me do these things?" he says. Calmly. Reasonably. As if it were the simplest question in the world. He stands, eyes hooded, watching her like a snake ready to strike. He isn't even out of breath. Her blood trickles down his fists, patters in crimson droplets onto the carpet (and she knows she'll be blamed for that, too, later on).
She can't answer him for a minute, too busy cataloging her agonies. Her chest: icy spears stabbing her with each breath she tries to take. Something grinds and shift inside, and she wonders if he's sprung a couple of ribs this time. Her scalp: searing fire where he'd yanked her hair to pull her up for another punch. The left side of her face: ominously dead, already swelling anew from the latest onslaught. Her lips: split, mashed against her teeth over and over.
"Well? I'm waiting." He puts his hands to the small of his back, grimaces as he stretches. "Goddamn if you didn't give me a workout this time." He shakes his head.
Her brain is still rattling inside her skull. She aches all over, wants nothing more than to just curl up into a ball and weep. But tears will only fan the flames. She has to pull herself together and answer him.
"I.....don't know," she says brokenly. "Please, no more."
It's the right answer, of course. He looks down at her, his eyes flickering, flickering. His mouth is a hard line, his face a blank stone mask. He lifts a foot, and she cringes back against the wall, suddenly drowning in the flood of terror; if he starts in with the kicking this time, it isn't going to end until she passes out.
But no, he's just raising his foot to step over her where she lays. She hears him snort as he stands above her. "You look ridiculous," he jeers. "Go get cleaned up and then get my dinner." He turns on his heel and disappears into the bedroom.
She draws a deep breath. Knives in her chest. She chokes the sobs back, but a tear squeezes out despite her best efforts. She pushes against the wall, using it as a lever. Up, up. The world tilts and spins crazily, but soon enough she's standing, breath coming sharp and fast, vision blurring in and out. She makes her way to the table, sits down heavily in a chair. Gropes in her purse, her small hand closing tightly around cold steel. Draws out her salvation.
The clack of the chambered round is very loud in the stillness.
[This has been my entry for Week 23 of LJ Idol, for which the topic was "the weak force". This entry is dedicated to all the women who have been victims of abuse, whether mental, emotional or physical (or all three). Please check out the other participants' entries and show them some love as well.]