...bruises

She heard him once again. Four attempts and he got in, slamming the door and bumping into everything on his track while she did no more than shiver in the kitchen. Not this. Please not this. Not again. Please not again. Not now. Please, PLEASE not now.

Rain was falling outside, hitting the pavement at a pace as fast as her heartbeat. It was late. So late you could call it early and she knew exactly what that meant. She hated herself every single time she cared for him. Once more and it’s over, she thought. Every time. Every single time she made that promise. And every single time she found herself putting up with it. With him. Every time she found herself covering the scratches. Every time she cured her own wounds. Every time she let it slide away, lying to everyone and hiding inside herself. This time would be no different.

He came into the kitchen screaming for attention. He smelled like dirty pubs and garbage cans. Like old water and muddy sidewalks. He was hungry and yelled for food. She knew it was best to just do it. Get it over with and let him sleep. Tears ran down her cheeks as she saw him. Filthy, wounded and wet. Another fight, and another walk home in the freezing, humid wind at this time, so late not even birds were up. She sobbed in silence and opened the refrigerator while he simply sat there, watching, expecting, waiting for her to do something wrong. For her to take too long. For her to make a mistake, just to have an excuse later on.

She got him to calm down, and after a fight so tough she thought it would be her last, she made him get into the bathtub. He was angry, and his wounds were almost as big as hers. She cleaned him with the care only lovers take, and when the water was a color as deep as her scars she made him come out, and dried him. He was still not satisfied once they were back in the kitchen and made that clear by throwing his meal almost at her, and fleeing the room, leaving her behind, cleaning because it was her job, and crying because this had been her fate and life for the past five years.If only she had listened to her friends. To her mother. Even her old uncle. Yes, this was her own fault and he was right: she deserved it.

Once she had cleaned up she went into the bedroom. He was there. On the bed. Waiting. She hated to know what was going to happen, and it would only get worse if she fought back. But she knew that was what he liked. He yelled at her, and his husky voice pierced her defenses. Her claws had nothing to do against the sharp paws that scarred her over and over again. She tried being gentle but he almost yanked off her clothes and cut through her skin, bruising the tiny surfaces still flesh toned. 

Another tear fell down to join the others, as she knew there was only one thing left to do. Only one Ace up her sleeve. Only one way out. Only one thing that would make him shut up and leave her alone. She knew she wasn’t supposed to. She couldn’t. She mustn’t. But that only made her want it even more. She wanted to put an end to this. To put an end to this night, and to, for once, sleep tight the rest of the dark hours.She yanked herself free and ran to the kitchen. She could hear him moan behind her and knew she didn’t have much time. She desperately opened the cupboards, and heard him come closer. As soon as she turned around he was there, but she had found what she was looking for and placed it right in front of him. 

He had never been able to resist a plate of cream.

In another part of town a phone was picked up and listened expectant to her words: “Sarah? Mr. Whiskers has been out fighting again. I think I need you to take us to the vet tomorrow.”