Sunday, January 10, 2010

Dirty blood

"I hate you," my voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.  I didn't recognize myself.  Just so fucking exhausted, tired of pretending to feel. The rage was down to an ember.  No energy to fuel it, to make myself fight back.
His old black eyes glittered contempt.  "There's no escaping me." The mocking voice that was once so sexy and deep made me shudder now.

My shoulders barely shrugged in response to his apparently factual statement.  He was convinced he owned me.  I could barely remember how I got trapped by the bastard in the first place.  Had it been five years?  It felt longer, forever trapped in quicksand.  Lured by the seemingly solid surface, beautiful warm beach sand, gently sinking ever more surely to the death of my soul.  I remembered once, that I tried to reach for the thin tree branch that grew over the pit.  My hand tried to work its way back up, then paused, wondering if it was still afraid of freedom.

"Darling, I want you to leave and be on time. . .please."  I tried to sound like I was pleading.  "Honey, don't you need to go to work?"  Of course I failed miserably.  He came toward me anyway.  "Lila, darling, I took the day off for you, just for you."  He was drooling poison, his grin and movements were that of the Komodo dragon.  Slow deliberate, then lightning fast.  I wished I could run, but he'd broken my leg with one well placed hammer blow. The cast was heavy and he had deliberately placed the crutches out of range.  I had left the house last week without his permission.  But, if I hadn't gone to get milk, he would have beat me for not going.

He told the cops that I fell of the ladder.  I obediently nodded.  The younger cop didn't believe me.  Officer Johnson kindly tried to speak to me alone.  The cop gently said that the x-rays told a different story. Dr. Rainey was concerned.  Then he told me about his poor abused mother.  I simply responded  that I had fallen, foolishly trying to clean the rain gutters on my own.  The sorrowful look on his face almost overpowered the threatening one of Daemon's through the grided glass of the hospital room.

I closed my eyes to my stupidity.  The young cop would have saved me.  But I had no interest in saving myself. Sick, mentally sick, that's what I am.  The bed sank w/ Daemon's weight.  A calloused hand with slender fingers caressed my face.  Oh, I remembered when that hand could bring me to my knees with desire.  Now I was trained to expect pain.  I flinched when the touching stopped.  He laughed, for he knew my expectations.

"Not today Lila, my little love, I brought you a present."  Quickly I opened my eyes and feigned surprise.  It would help me postpone the beating, if  I could fake excitement well enough.  He waved a pregnancy test at me.  That's why the birth control had been withheld from me. 

"It's time to have a child."  His pants were already undone and placed on the seat.  He kept his fucking socks on.  The box was carefully set down on the nightstand.  Then shirt was pulled off, showing his six pack.  He folded it carefully over the chair back.  In the mirror he flexed and admired himself.  I used to help build that ego.

Watching him in his never changing routine, caused my charcoal rage to glow.  As my imagination began to churn, sparks began to appear.  If I had a daughter, what would he do to her?  I don't want her to grow up weak like me. Sparks became flames.  If I had a son, how would he be turned against me?  I didn't want him to turn out like his father.  I begin to scream over and over again, "NO!"  Daemon grabbed the covers roughly off of me.  He hit my cast, punched me in the stomach.  The shock of pain, caused me to whimper. It turned him on.  Quickly he was on top, pulled my pj's off.  Then I hyper-focused, turned inward, and turned my fury cold.  Can't burn the branch from the tree that had been growing down and thick toward the quicksand just for me.  Like a banshee bent on vengence, my spirit rose from its sandy grave. "NO!" tore through the air to save the unborn souls, I reached under the pillow for the butter knife I had originally reserved for myself and began to stab him in the back, again and again and again.  When all went still, I realized I had glorious red all over me.  Somehow, he was lighter. Hopefully, because he went to hell.  I shoved him off and called 911 and waited, while his dirty blood caked itself, his last chance to claim me.


  1. Heh. Interesting.

    Write more often... that'll give you time to edit.

  2. Editing! Hmmm. . .yeah, need an editor!

  3. powerful. the guilt that makes the abused silent is one of the great self inflicted horrors that perpetuates sadism, you rols it well.

  4. that was "told it well" — everyone could use an editor,

  5. So sorry that I didn't get to read this before voting. What is so scary about this, is that although it appears extreme, there are many people living in abusive situations which bring them very close to the actions of this woman. I also agree with Yodood's comment. The fear and inertia of the abused to reach for freedom is well represented by the quicksand image.

  6. Thank you for the positive comments. They keep me trying to write.