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.
