A short-short story


The young man standing over the battered woman was bitter with his life; filled with arguments and questions he was unyielding. He needed no prompting; his waking hours devoted to causing heartache, pain and suffering. He had a skill for creating pain, even in his passionate moments. His joy was to reign over his rightful possession, his wife. On their first day of marriage, she would cease to have a will of her own, she was afraid and she obeyed. To serve, to have no mind of her own, without any support from others she too thought that he owned her. She would never be his equal, when he was with her his words brought new bleeding to her heart and mind. He was only satisfied when he drew blood, his appetite for hurting never ceased.

He had broken their vows thousands of times, his mouth foul and dishonest with an adulterous heart beating within his broad barrel chest. She thought maybe his past, his youth; his own suffering at the hands of another had brought him to this day? He was not true or kind; he felt no shame in the bruises he left behind. Among those who knew him, he could do no harm; people did not know him. She had not asked for pearls or rubies, and she did not ask that her blood be spread across every moment of her life. His moods released terror in his path, and eventually she lay like twisted metal after it had met with deadly winds. She felt no worth, or equalities, she believed in only his wrath and his sickly attempts to have her go mad.

His affections never tender, many times, she was like a lamb to be killed at the altar by his manic desires. At times when people would try to get acquainted with her, he and only he owned her. The scars of battle went unseen; she was a caged animal in their home. Her discipline she held by grace but she vowed never give in to the bond he commanded, she fought back.  One day she rose from the floor screaming at him, “Your fist no longer stings, my stomach will no longer will live in knots, and my body will no longer be confined. Your torture inflames my spirit, it does not kill it; I will no longer cringe in shame and silence, and I will no longer suffer the pain; I will no longer live in shock or fear.”

Later that night she asks herself did her torturer have a soul; did he take an oath with the Devil? She did not weep, she did not cry, or show fear, “It is the last time,” she thought. She was not aware of the time that he put the poison in her food, but she somehow sensed that she was going to die that night. He would never let her leave him, with her face covered with tears she closed her eyes, there was no one to hear her moans, and she could not escape the tragedy of her life. Finally, she fell into a sleep from she would not wake from, a final thought danced across her dying mind, she was free.




Book by author at and Barnes& $.99 to $15:



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