The sound of his fist striking her face made a dull thud, which surprised her. She had known for months this moment was coming; it was just a matter of time. She had thought about how it would feel, but never did she wonder about how it would sound.

Really, it didn’t hurt. In fact, she didn’t feel anything at all. It was like it wasn’t even happening to her – she was just an observer, watching. She viewed the action from above as the man told the woman she deserved it, because she was a selfish, spoiled bitch. She watched the woman crying, asking “Why?” over and over. She – the observer — wanted to help the woman, but what could she do? She didn’t have a job, no family to turn to, so how could she help the woman?

The man had the woman on the floor next and was crushing her face into the carpet. He was telling the woman what hell it was for him to live with such a self-centered, know-it-all cunt. She wondered why the woman didn’t fight him, why all she did was sob.

If only she had done better, then the woman wouldn’t have to be treated this way. She should have thought more carefully before she spoke. She should have made sure dinner was ready on time last week. She should have done his laundry before hers. It was her fault that the woman she was observing was going through this.

The counselor had explained that she was suffering from depression caused by “battered women’s syndrome”. She couldn’t accept that; everyone knows that a woman isn’t abused until her husband leaves a mark on her: black eye, broken bones. And even then, that’s only her side of the story.

“What did you do to provoke him?” her mother had asked when she finally had enough courage to tell. It was after the fourth or fifth time he had thrown her around the house. That time he had held her down to repeatedly spit in her face. “Well, he didn’t hit you or anything. Don’t you think you’re being just a bit melodramatic? After all, you’re not that easy to live with…”

The counselor told her to be careful if she decided to stay with him. “You’re just going to have to go along with everything he says and does. Watch what you say, and don’t talk back. If you’re going to stay, it will be a real effort to keep him from going into a rage and seriously hurting you someday.” But she knew she could do it.

She was wrong. She continued to watch as the woman laid cowering on the floor where she had been thrown. The man grabbed the crying woman’s hair and started dragging her towards the bedroom. “I hate you! You’ve ruined my life! I’m going to get my gun and blow my brains out, and you’re going to watch because YOU are responsible for it! My brains will be splattered all over you, and you’ll know it was all your fault!”

Suddenly, she wasn’t the observer anymore. She had again become the woman being dragged towards the bedroom she had shared with her husband for only seven months. She was appalled to find herself actually praying for him to go through with his threat, thinking, “Just please do it and leave me alone!”

As if he had read her mind, he suddenly stopped dragging her by her hair and screamed in her face, “No! I’m not going to do it! You’d get all my insurance money! Fuck you!”

She doesn’t remember how she got into the bathroom. Dry heaves were attacking her in waves, but nothing happened. God, she couldn’t even vomit right! She looked in the mirror and saw the scratches on her face, and strands of hair that had been pulled from her head still remained on her clothes, but she felt no pain. All she felt was hatred for the face staring back at her in the mirror.

Just six months ago, she was staring at a similar face in the mirror, red and puffy from crying. He was on his third day of not talking to her, except for saying, “Fuck you bitch! You know why I’m mad at you! God, all I ever wanted was a decent wife, and what did I get? I hope you die in a car wreck!” She had looked at herself in the same mirror, wondering what she could have done that was so wrong. They had only been married five weeks. Later that night, the punishment was over as quickly as it had begun, and he was talking to her again. He said the reason for his anger was because she had stifled a yawn when he was talking to her. She couldn’t believe it! She had just been tired and had yawned, and that is what set him off? She felt rage and resentment towards him, but her mind told her she had to be more careful when she breathed.

She’d lie awake nights, going over practice conversations in her mind. She just couldn’t afford to say anything wrong the next day. It was a difficult semester, and she had to study. There would be no studying done if she made a mistake. College was all she had that made her feel worth something, since she had quit her job to move in with him. Every night she’d worry about what mistakes she may make the next day. Being quiet so she wouldn’t wake him up, most nights she’d cry herself to sleep.

When she suggested counseling to him, he replied, “Why should I go? I don’t have the problem, you do!” So she went.

That was four months ago. She looked at herself in the mirror with disbelief. The night she had been dreading had finally come. Why hadn’t she called the police? She knew she would have never made it to the phone. Why doesn’t she call them now? Because they’d only hold him for a few hours, then he’d come right back home to her. She had nowhere else to go, so what good would that do? He was probably asleep by now anyway. Crisis over. She looked into the mirror with disgust and self-loathing.

“I’ll call the police next time,” she whispered to her reflection, then turned away to join her husband in bed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I wrote this autobiographical story 12 years ago, so if it sucks, blame ’90’s Mary, not me. Artwork found by Google Image Search.