A Somewhat Uncomfortable Scene

I decided to write this piece today for two reasons. One is because I have seen an ad on television recently about domestic violence. It is heart wrenching. Secondly, I am in the midst of reading a book this week that touches on the subject. I believe strongly that women (and perhaps men in some instances) deserve support in ending the “hearts and flowers” cycle that often occurs when domestic violence is left unheeded. Below is my attempt at writing a short scenario.

When the lights went out suddenly that night, Kate promised herself things never would be the same, but most likely she was wrong. Frozen with fear, she had sat alone in the darkness for what seemed an eternity. It wasn’t. She waited only six hours, until dawn, until she was able to ease herself from the couch where she had shivered in the night cold afraid to move, afraid if she did he would come back. She could not bear that.

No sooner had Nick slapped her hard, did the house go dark as though some phantom had snapped off the electricity signaling that indeed this was perhaps the end. Their bickering that night had escalated into unrestrained anger.

“You are pathetic, Kate,” he spat.

“And you’re a psycho,” she retorted.

When his eyes had drawn into slits, she knew instinctively what was coming. It was not the first time. She watched, as if in slow motion, his arm rear back and then come at her. She reeled from the sting of his hand on her face, but at the same time reached out for him, her fingernails being her only weapon. She did not reach her mark, however, for he shoved her to the floor too quickly for her to connect. He whirled around then in a furry, tearing toward the front door that slammed firmly as he exited. She crawled on her hands and knees, in a black silence to the couch where she huddled, knees drawn to her chest, her arms holding them tight, and her back wedged against the cold leather. After the tears, in time, all emotion left her, but she was not without feeling. Her throbbing cheek had her attention.

When finally she moved at daybreak, she walked stiff and achy down the hall to her bedroom. The mirror reflected what she had feared. Her cheek bore a purple bruise and her eye was hemorrhaged. She knew it would take days for the blood to absorb, and until then, she would have to improvise a whole slew of excuses. A few began to take shape in her mind, but vanished immediately when she heard the door open and listened as Nick’s familiar foot pattern brought him closer. When he stepped into the room, her body tightened and she turned toward him, secretly hoping he would be appalled at the sight of her injuries, that he would be sorry. If he were worried, however, not a flicker of concern was discernable. It was as though Kate were invisible. He strode past her, looked at her sideways, smirked, and she understood.

She walked like an obedient child to the kitchen where a dozen pink roses and a tiny, stuffed teddy bear awaited her approval.

It was a new day.