Alone

Content Note: This story explores themes of domestic abuse and control. Reader discretion is advised.

Thud, thud, thud, thud.

The drumming in her head was incessant, the pain throbbing in time with the rhythm. She reached across and slammed her laptop shut. Can’t read the damn screen anyway. Her thoughts were mushy. She pressed her fists into her temples, pleading for the agony to stop. As she sat at the kitchen bench, she tiptoed her fingers down her face, checking for swelling and cuts.

The phone rang, the sound drilling into her ears. She flicked the call to voicemail, then tapped the camera app to view her face. Streaks of blood had left dark crimson slashes trailing from her nose and mouth, snaking down her chin. Her eyes followed these lines to their final destination on her pearly white blouse. Its front, now covered in delicate seething shapes, an artistic representation of the night before.

Images flashed into her head. Parking the car, flicking the remote to close the garage door. Standing next to the car. A swinging arm. A punching fist. Angry eyes. His muddy boots as he dragged her along the floor, letting her arm drop as he opened the door between their garage and the house. Grabbing her arm again, he shoved her through the door and into the hallway. She leaned against the wall, nursing her pain as he closed the door behind them.

Then the accusations, the shouting. ‘Where have you been? You know you can’t leave the house without my permission!’ He took his rage out on her, then hurtled down the hallway and out the front door—a cyclone of fury seeking to annihilate anyone who buffeted against his storm.

She looked out the kitchen window at the garden. Her beloved sanctuary full of daffodils, lavender and ferns. Its colour and soft textures so calming. Its presence somehow soothed the headache from the wine she had gulped down last night, searching for oblivion.

I don’t know what to do. Her mind was full of her failings, but she wasn’t sure what she kept doing wrong. She only knew that she was never right.

Why did I marry him? That thought possessed her. Was it his charm or that tiny crinkle that appeared at the side of his mouth just before he smiled? A smile that had filled her with warmth and love.

Not any longer.

It started slowly at first. Holding her wrist a little too tightly, wanting to know where she was, controlling her money. A harsh comment about her appearance, his cutting tones as he said, ‘You’re not really going out wearing that, are you?’ She would go and change into clothes deemed more appropriate to his mood.

She thought back to that night, the first time he hit her. A punch followed by his tears and apologies. Until the next time. Until the apologies came no more.

Could I leave him?

The clock ticked, a time bomb prompting her to action.

Just as she moved towards freedom, the doorknob turned.

He was back.