Beat me again!

*Graphic, to a degree, though in my opinion, not so.*

Laying here on the floor on my stomach, staring once again at my blood, dripping from my face. I can already feel my eye swelling shut.

Slowly I push myself up, making sure to keep my head down. I must not make eye contact, for one, I do not know what I have done wrong. Out of the blue he just smacked me. Quickly I review in my mind the sequence of events that led to me being splayed upon the floor.

He came into the house, I greeted him as I should. I gave him a kiss, took his jacket, gave him his newspaper and his glass of brandy...two tots on two cubes of ice...had his slippers placed by his chair...

Oh my hat, his slippers, they were outside to outside, not inside facing each other! I glower at his feet, my anger rising, equally for myself, as for him. I feel the blood drip from my nose. I shall have to clean it quickly, when he bids me depart. 

On the one hand I hate and loathe this man, but on the other I still love the man I fell in love with. How can I, I ask myself, still love this man? For these long eight years the answer has eluded me.

"Go!" He barks, signalling my permission to depart. Like a dog I back away and flee his presence, seeking out my cleaning utensils to clean up my blood. I do not need his wrath raining upon me again. 

My hand involuntarily reaches for my eye, as I walk past the passage way mirror. Already it is swollen shut, leaving me seeing myself through one eye. I will have to cancel my book club meeting, cannot let the ladies see me like this. 

All to soon I am heading back to the living room, bucket in hand and a rag in the other. I cannot help thinking back into the past of the man I knew before we got married. He was so kind, so...gentle, his demeanour exuded none of this violence he bestows upon me now. He did not seem to have a jealous bone in his body. How different he is now. Now I cannot look or talk to any man, unless he is with and then, not to much, a very thin line indeed. He is so possessive, so needy, so controlling! How the hell did I not see him for what he is? 

Too soon I am back in the same room as him, head bent, quite, I begin to clean up. I can feel his eyes boring into me as I work. I make double sure I clean up properly and that I do not take to long. He will be expecting his supper on time, even though he has delayed me.

I flee his presence to the safety of my kitchen, a sanctuary he will only enter to beat me or role play one of his sexual fantasies, other than that, it is below him to enter. I now have to rush to finalise the meal. Another of his pet hates is that he does not like his food warmed up in the microwave, so he bought me one that makes a ting, when finished. I use it to warm his food, without him knowing, my little secret rebellion. Just before it finishes I open the door and take his food out. 

Tonight I will be eating cold food, while his is piping hot, a small price to pay, if I do not want to get beaten. Tonight we will be eating roast lamb, with potatoes, butternut and spinach. I wave a quick thought of him choking to death on it from my mind. That is to good for him.

I hear him in the dining room taking his seat. My eye inadvertently settles on the wall clock, two more minutes and it is six o clock. I better hurry, his fuse seems a bit short tonight. As elegently as I can, I enter the dining room and serve him. After putting the meal before him, I pour him a glass of his favourite red wine.

I am sickened as he nods his approval of what I am doing. I retreat back to the kitchen to compose myself before emerging with my own, cold, plate of food. I sit down and wait for him to say grace.

He clears his throat, a signal for me to close my eye. I bow my head and do such. A few seconds later he begins.

"Dear Lord, I give you thanks for this meal, we are about to eat. Amen." Short and sweet, much like what is going on in his pants! I catch myself smirking at that, luckily my head is bowed as I say amen.

He starts to devour the meal I prepared for him, sipping of his wine in between. He dains it a prerequisite that he tell me about his day at work...like I care! However I do not show this, I make all the polite comments, pose the correct questions, even act incredulous at some of the grievances he has. All the necessary safety measures to protect myself.

We finish eating and I quickly clear the table and start washing dishes, I listen as he goes upstairs and prepares to shower. Soon he will expect me upstairs to also get ready for bed. Everything is about timing, repetition and perfection.

I trudge upstairs, my feet feeling like lead, my brain screaming I should flee, but to where? I have nowhere to go and anyway, he will fetch me and bring me back. Then he will sort me out proper. I shudder at some of the memories as they jump out at me. 

I have five minutes to shower. Luckily I shower before he gets home, this time round it is just another little eye blind for him. I hope against hopes he is not in the mood tonight. With my luck, he is most probably up for the occasion.

I make sure I am wearing a full night gown, the ugliest thing in the world, as I emerge from the en suite. I freeze and my heart drops, he is up for it tonight, he looks at what I am wearing and before I can do anything, he starts to rip it from me.

It hurts to hell and back as the fabric is ripped from me. I do not wear under wear, as I cannot sleep if I am wearing it. Red marks line my body where the fabric tore off me. He grabs me by the hair and tosses me on the bed face down and forces my legs open and proceeds to rape me. 

There is no other way to describe it. It is what it is. He has gone to an all new level. With this deed he has finally killed the little piece in me that still loved him. Now I am consumed by hate, a dark swart hate, that has been brewing for a long time. I can feel the release building up...

Minutes later, blessedly so, he grunts and writhes like a epileptic, climaxing while I endure the pain of what he has done to me. He flops down on me, his full one hundred kilograms pressing the wind out of me, as he sighs and gives a few more thrusts.

He kisses my neck and rolls off, flops himself down on his side of the bed, getting ready to go sleep, tears flow from my one eye, as I make my way back into the en suite. I turn on the taps and let the scalding hot water wash over me. I grab the soap and start washing, scrubbing away his touch. I am so unclean, will I ever be clean again?

Thoughts rush through my head, I will end it tonight, I have had enough! Enough! Dripping I step from the shower, all my blood and his residue washed from me. I leave the shower water streaming out the rose. I steadily, with a purpose head downstairs. 

In the kitchen I look at my knives, each one screaming at me, take me, take me. Gently I run my hands over them, forsaking all of them. I have another implement in mind. I find my heaviest pan I have, solid thick base, cast iron, way old school. If the light had been on, the smile, I smiled that moment would have put Bobbits wife to shame.

In a daze of happy thoughts I returned to my vile nightly prison, escape and freedom singing in my mind. His raucous snores offending my ears as I entered the room and went to stand on his side of the bed. Dispassionately I stare at his sleeping form, glowing in the orgasm of his defilement. 

I raise the pan with both hands above my head and wait for him to wake. My hatred oozes out of me as I imagine me pounding his head in, drinking in his screams till he stops. I prepare to wake him, but before I do, he stirs, with groggy eyes he stares at me...then the pan, his eyes widening and his mouth making a big O.

He tries to raise his hands, as my pan descends like a guillotine upon his skull. I feel the impact as it jars my arms, his first scream is like that of a mewling seal pup. I raise the pan again, its surface stained with blood, for once not mine! I bring it down once more, spraying blood over my clean white sheets. His blood splattering even to where I had bled from his ravishing!

My arm sweeps up and down rhythmically, his cries dying, stopping, but I do not, I persist, letting the years of abuse out. I carry on beating his corpse, long after he is dead. My final blow I direct at his genitals, crushing his eggs. I feel pity at this act, not because I should not have done it, but that he could not have felt it.

I drop the pan on the floor, where it thuds with a loud hollow noise. I stare awhile at the mashed up head that had once been my husbands head...there is nothing to recognise him by. I turn and head back to the shower to wash his blood from me.

I sit in the shower till the water goes cold and it breaks my reverie. I smile as I turn the taps off, shivering, I climb out and I feel so clean now, free. I dry myself and get dressed quickly. I have never felt so happy in my life. 

I go downstairs to the phone and dial the police. My new life is about to begin, my servitude in hell is finally over. On the third ring, they answer.

"Good evening, what is your emergency?" I smile before I answer...