She sat whimpering on the edge of the bed, her back turned to him. She hid her tears against the palms of her hands. Sneaking a peek to the other side of the bed, their eyes met, and she quickly looked away from him.
"What the hell are you crying for?" he demanded. She just shook her head. "No, what the hell is your problem?"

"Nothing," she squeaked out, fearing he might hit her again.
"Haven�t I told you how ugly you look when you cry?" She nodded her head. "Haven�t I explained that when you cry it makes me angry?" She shook her head again, looking down at the floor. "Do I need to explain again?"
"No! No, I�m fine," she replied, sniffing and wiping her eyes.
"I don�t know. I think you�re stupid, and unless I teach you over and over, you�re never going to learn."

Before she had time to curl up, he was already upon her. She put her arm over her face, but her girlish strength was pulled back with her hair, and he slapped the side of her face hard. As she opened her mouth to cry out, blood dribbled off her lips and she spat out a tooth. She began crying harder, but with every blow to her head, she felt farther and farther away, drifting in and out of semi-consciousness.

He was used to having to beat her. She often got out of line, and he was the only person who could straighten her out. She just got under his skin sometimes: her laugh was so intrusive; she dressed up to go to work, knowing she would see other men and knowing they would see her; she spoke out against him in front of other people, as if that was acceptable.

Sure, he loved her. When they made love, he could be so tender with her. Their bodies seemed to flow together like a calming river running over stones, smoothing out their beauty. Their tongues danced in each other�s mouths, scooping happily along their bodies. She would wince when he touched her bruises and cuts, but she would never call out. She knew better.

She spat the blood from her mouth onto the floor. Her face felt like it had been shoved into a wall, and was beginning to swell from the beating. It had begun its wave of colors, shadowing the fading yellows and greens of last week. She squinted out of her right eye; the left had already closed shut. His face was full of fury, and though she had seen it many times, it still frightened her.

"Stupid bitch, you�ll never learn," he mumbled. He held her chin up with his left hand, punched her in the mouth with his right.

"I�m sohwy! I�m sohwy!" she sobbed.

He grabbed her hair, twisting it in his hands and pulled her face close to his. "Sorry for what?" he spat out.

"I�m sohwy for cwying, and weaving the apahtment to go to the guhwocery store without you. I should have waited until you got off from wohk!" she explained, her words slurred from her damaged lips.

"Damn right you should have," he told her, pulling her to him, gently kissing her forehead.

She made a face as he kissed her, careful not to turn her head away from his revolting mouth. She knew this was the only way he knew of apologizing. Ignoring. She hung limp in his arms as he spoke soft words to her. She saw herself leaving, sneaking out the door that night as he slept. Or maybe leaving when he went to work. But she knew she wouldn�t. He would keep her weak and feeble; she would succumb to his every will in order to survive. She knew she would never be able to leave. And he knew it, too.

Danielle Walker