"Dammit, Frank, haven't you had enough to drink?"

He glowered at her, and deep within she smiled. She knew all the right buttons to push. He hated it when she used profanity. Unladylike. And his drinking habits were strictly off limits. He grabbed her roughly by the arm and punched her in the stomach; a stream of garbled curses accompanying his assault.

She hated it.

-- Hit me again, you bastard, she thought to herself.

Detested him.

-- Harder, honey, she willed him, though the pain was excruciating.

Despised herself, for having married a clone of her father, who had abused her in similar fashion when he was drunk.

He hit her three, four, five times, always in her stomach. For no matter how inebriated he was, he wouldn't dare mar her face. Not for fear of incriminating himself, but because he'd married her, in good part, for that face; so full of mysterious beauty he couldn't take his eyes off it when he was sober.

He hit twice more, then exhausted, climbed into bed and fell asleep.

When he woke up later, they made love and he blubbered apologies. As he always did. As if that would make the pain and humiliation go away.

"It was the booze, you know that Jen," he said, kissing her eyes, full lips and high cheek bones ever so gently.

"You know I wouldn't hurt you for the world. The booze though . . . it takes hold of me."

Tears would come to his eyes as he touched her gently in all the places that gave her pleasure. He knew them all, and his only thought now was to fulfill her needs.

"I want to stop, God help me, but I can't. But you gotta know it's not me hurting you, Jen. You know that, don't you? It's not me . . . "

It's you, all right, she thought to herself, but remained silent. Just as her father wasn't himself when he beat her mother and later her. The booze. Always the booze.

No fool, she normally steered clear of him when the tedium of his job or the threat of being laid off made him turn to booze for succor. She'd slip out to visit a friend, or just make herself scarce, saying nothing to provoke him.

At times though, she purposely goaded him; wanting -- needing -- the abuse that awaited her.

It wasn't that she was a glutton for punishment. Not a masochist who felt she'd failed him or deserved to be beaten. Nor was she into S&M or kinky sex. True, after each beating, to wash away his shame, he fulfilled her every need. True, too, sex after those beatings was far more satisfying than sex when either of them just felt in the mood. But, no matter how good the sex, the pain he'd inflicted lingered deep within her body and soul long after the ecstasy of the flesh was a dim memory.

She provoked him because with her it must end. Abuse was the one constant in her family. Her father, his father before him and her great-grandfather had beaten their wives and children. And she, like her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother had married a man so full of demons and self-loathing it was only a matter of time before he'd hit the bottle, then hit her.

Only she had the strength to end the cycle of abuse. End it forever. On her terms. But only by becoming a punching bag had she so far been successful.

She'd invited his assaults on three occasions; said words she knew would drive him over the edge, and so cloud his mind he'd thrash her until he succumbed to exhaustion.

With each punch the unborn son deep within her womb bellowed with rage; as if fully aware of her plan. And, as he was torn to pieces, she wanted to thank Frank for sparing some other woman the indignities he heaped upon her.

Two times before, and again tonight, unbeknownst to him he'd caused her to miscarry just weeks after becoming pregnant. He so wanted a son to carry on the family name. Her infertility was a constant irritant; one of the many injustices of his life.

She smiled, now, as he entered her; the hour of blissful foreplay complete.

It felt so good.

So good to be rid of the creature that would have perpetuated the cycle of abuse.

It would end with her; no matter how many times she'd have to make him abort the fetus.

And one day, when they were both old and withered -- when his rage so consumed him he'd be but a shell of himself -- she'd let him know. Watch him crumble, like a fine China plate carelessly dropped. Drink his pain, like fine wine. Childless . . . due to his own hand.

For she wouldn't forgive and certainly wouldn't forget. She had her own demons that would need to be purged.

How sweet it would be.

Home | Editor's Desk | Poetry | Prose | Guidelines | Email | Links