Bended Hills

December 23, 1962

Dear diary,

The nights as I expected are dreadfully cold. Last week Peckerwood's small town even got some snow on the ground.  Today's chill though leaves ice on the window pain, and frost in the sheets it seems. It is on nights like these that I sit and wonder how Norman can stand being out in that barn. Our crops came in short this year so there is not much clothing to shield us from this blistering winter. Despite this, it seems like Norman is spending more and more time out there in this biting cold. It bothers me that tending to those sheep is more important than being warm in the house with me. He cherishes those animals like they are some sort of prize, when I’m the one who sews all of our clothes, cooks all of our meals, tend the plants, and clean the house.  I was even willing to feed the animals just to be closer to him, but he won't let me near that barn. I think he feels that I can't do anything right, and if that is a thought than I just cannot understand it. He is so sexually inadequate that sometimes it pains me to even look at him. My disgust must reside in his spirit, because each time after, he just buckles up his corduroys and heads for the barn with the same solemn expression, and the same remark, "Liza, I'll be out, be back after a while." Most times he can't even get it up to perform at all. I want so desperately to believe that this is just a rough phase in our marriage, but deep down I know the truth, he hates being intimate with me because I’m only half a woman, barren. I told him thousands of times that adoptions have completed millions of families every day, and he will hear no part of it. Norman thinks masturbation is the answer but it's not. It is only grooving the wedge deeper into the seams of this rift.  But I am only human, so trying to communicate to a wall is impossible.  But even still I love my husband; Norman is the heart and soul of me.  I just don't know what to do now; I just don't know what to do.

Liza

“You bitch, dammit Liza, what the hell is this, you call this a goddam meal?” Norman threw the plate across the room as he screamed other obscenities.  “Cold eggs, potted grits, fatty bacon, my God Liza, have you ever seen a Goddam stove?” Here it comes. “Bitch!” Whap! The slap lands hard across Liza’s face leaving a hand print on her right cheek which is swelling and turning purple in color.  Blood drips from the edges of her rounded bubbled lips and drops to her white Amish styled dress.  She dares not to cry because she knows that if one tear hits her apron, the beatings will ensue harder, faster, stronger, longer.  His hands, so big, like boulders, are swift and precise with each blow, and he is like an animal when it comes to fear, he can smell it, and he thrives on it.  Liza stands there staring into the rage in Norman’s eyes, tears threatening to spill which will beckon her brutal lashing.  Norman realizes that he is not going to get the reaction that he wants so he just turns around and says, “Better have that picked up by the time that I come back.”

December 24, 1962

Dear Diary,

How has it come to this?  Every day that I wake up, I ask myself what I can do to please Norman. I strive harder each moment, and with every step that I take to take better care of Norman he reminds me of how horrible a job that I am doing.  Yesterday was the absolute worse; Norman slapped me so hard I thought that the floor was going to give in under my feet because of the weight.  The beatings are no longer a surprise, and the shock has long worn.  I know when it is coming; I can feel it in the air like a storm brewing over the gulf.  And even now, as we have been married twenty years and I can sense his anger from a mile away it still frightens me, sometimes even portends to take my soul right out of my chest. Before he hits me my heart stops beating and it doesn’t return until it is over.  I think that I am temporarily dead just to get through the pain.  I want to go to him, somehow comfort him from whatever ails him to his place of misery, but I can’t. He spends so much of his time out in the barn that I never see him, and he has punished me several times for going within even shooting distance of the barn.  I know that there is something out there that he is hiding from me, more than his masturbation.  Maybe he even has magazines of loose girls.  Sometimes I think he might be there praying to God that he kills me so that he can replace me.  I know that is what he is doing and it kills me, kills me because I love him, and I know that his love has long since dissipated like dust in the wind, and for hanging on for dear life I am ashamed.

Liza

The air is musty outside and the trees hang heavy with secrets from our history it seems.  The winds howl in this thick December fog.  Stray cats are perched on the porch, poised like pitched pennies. The clothes that were hanging on the line permeate the air in the house as I bring them in.  Norman likes to have all of his clothes ironed before they are folded.  Shoot, the biscuits are burning. Norman is going to be pissed.  I run over to the stove as the smoke builds and becomes heavy.  I go to grab the towel hanging over the fan and bump the pitcher of kerosene, and before I could react the whole stove begins to flame out of control.  The fire is spreading faster than I can think, so I began running out the barn to fetch Norman.  As I am running I hear this loud grunting coming from the barn. I know that it is Norman.  He breathes in and out, slowly and definitely. His grunts are low and guttural. I am just close enough now that I can hear him whisper huskily, and his voice is throaty and raspy in a way that reminds me nothing of the sounds he utters when we are intimate.  The sounds resound loudly within the space that threatens to break my resolve. I inch closer and can hear his words, “The best fucking sheep of my life.” Oh my God! The barn doors are slightly ajar and I peer just within the crack.  I can see Norman now, and even though I can only see in inch within the sliver of the door, my view is as clear as million dollar diamonds.  There he was, jeans around his ankles, knees slightly bent, balanced behind the sheep with her hind legs in his hands.  He dumps her over on the floor as he is spent and wipes sweat off of his brow.  I run back to the house before he can see me to find my neighbor putting out the fire. 

December 29, 1962

Dear Diary,

All of my years of wondering could never amount to my wildest dreams, that even what I saw would make me believe my eyes.  I wish that he would have just killed me.  All of the sounds that he was making, as I ran to the house from the barn, my knees felt like they were going to give in and betray me.  I am sicker than I have ever been in my life.  Norman beat me so bad for the fire that I was rushed to the emergency room.  My eyes are swollen a little still, but they will never allow me to forget what I saw back there.  On Christmas day I lay in the hospital seemingly unconscious, but the images flash through my mind like old black and white films.  He has touched me and the hairs all over my body stand up straight.  I am ill even at the thought.  Walking on the same floors as Norman, breathing the same air, sharing the same space, to me now with what I know is a sin.  I shall lay my head in purgatory for eternity for our union. Something must be done, or my soul shall ache inside of me and leave me vacant like a hollow shell. Vengeance is mine said the Lord, but wrath today shall be lent to me.

 Liza

I could see him lying there.  Breathing peacefully and I knew why he had spent the entire night in that barn, and I listened, to every noise, every sound he made, I could imitate precisely in my head.  I vomited once he had finally finished.  I went inside the barn and looked at the sheep; she looked tired, and vulnerable, angry and ashamed.  I felt sorry for her.  I grabbed the ax from behind the house and hid it in our attic.  I put it under the bed once he fell asleep, waiting for the right moment.  I stand over him now with all of the power that he has stood over me with.  I hold in my hands life and death, and I shall choose the latter. I raise my hands as he opens his eyes, for the final time, and for the first time I see in his eyes fear, and I love it, and I swing with all of my might, and force that I can bear. I split him right between the eyes, and drag the blade down his middle; he doesn’t even make a sound.