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He let himself in the apartment slamming the door, making me yelp and turn, dropping the glass I was drying. I was supposed to pick him up from the airport. I was supposed to get pretty and go greet him like a good wife, let him squeeze me too tight, kiss me too intimate for a public place. That was what was supposed to happen. But not for another two hours.
“What the fuck did you do, Willow?” he growled, dropping his bag and stomping toward where I stood frozen, barefoot in the kitchen, surrounded by shards of glass.
“I... I wasn't expecting you. You scared me,” I said, taking a deep breath.
“You fucking sayin' it's my fault you broke a glass? Who pays for that shit, Willow? Huh? Who!”
He'd never yelled at me before. Been a little gruff, a little unnecessarily forceful in his tone? Sure. But he had never outright yelled. I felt my body jolt away from the sound, fear uncurling like a snake in my belly, jaws unhinged, ready to swallow me up from the inside.
“I'm sorry, Damian. I didn't mean to...”
“No. You're not sorry. Not yet. But you're going to be.”
I didn't even register that I should be terrified when he reached down and started to unfasten his belt. In my world, that didn't pose a threat. If anything, I thought he was going to make me suck him off or fuck him or something. And, well, who could blame him for wanting that as soon as he was home after so long without it?
“Throw the rest of that in the sink, bitch.”
Bitch? Bitch?I threw the rest of the glass in the sink, my hands suddenly trembling. “I'm so glad you're hom...”
“Shut the fuck up. I know what you've been up to.” Oh, shit. Shit shit shit. He knew about the classes and the friends. Alright. That was okay. I could smooth that all over. I just needed to talk to him and say... “Fucking everything with a cock,” he accused, taking his belt and folding it in half, gripping the end tight.
“What? Damian, no! I've only ever been with yo...”
“Don't you fucking lie to me you dirty slut! I know you've been giving away my cunt to every man you could.”
Suddenly, my eyes went to the belt and I understood. Oh, god, I understood. The feeling I felt then was hard to describe. Fear, yes, but it was different than any fear I had ever known before because it was mingled with something else. It was mingled with the knowledge that unlike a random mugging on the street, that this would not be the only time. If my husband was going to beat me, he was going to keep beating me. There would be no end in sight. The nausea rose up in my throat and I had to swallow hard through it to keep it down.
“I'm gonna show you what happens when my woman steps out on me. I guess I have to teach you a lesson, huh?”
His arm lifted, cocked back, and all that was after that was the searing, indescribable pain of leather biting into my skin. It was simply... blinding. All consuming. It was all there was in the world, the pain. I lost my footing early, slamming down on all fours on the floor, feeling the glass cutting into my palms and my legs as I tried to scramble away, tears pouring down my face. But on my hands and knees, I was in the perfect position for him to whip my skirt up, rip my panties off, and apply the belt to the bare, unprotected skin of my ass. The sick came up then, leaving me gagging all over the kitchen floor as the belt broke into the already raised welts on my skin.
“You belong to me,” he growled, getting down behind me and I knew what was next. Somehow, I preferred it. I didn't even bother to say no. If it took the belt away, I would let him fuck me until my legs gave out. The belt moved upward and I felt him slide it around my neck, tightening it into a collar and pulling until I couldn't even try to gasp for breath. It was then that he pushed inside of me.
After, he left me on the floor to cry. And, lord, how I cried. I had never cried like that before in my life- loud, loud enough to alert the neighbors if they hadn't already heard me screaming through my beating, and uncontrolled, my entire body convulsing hard with the sobs that I felt would never end.
He came out when I was quieter, still crying and I was pretty sure I would never stop crying, picked me up, and carried me to the bathroom where he dropped me on my ass in the tub, chuckling when I screamed at the pressure against the open wounds across my back and bottom. I watched in horror as he moved toward the medicine cabinet and grabbed alcohol, tweezers, triple antibiotic, and gauze. He came back toward me, not bothering to look at my face as he unscrewed the cap and poured the alcohol all down my legs and over my palms, ignoring my cries of pain.
“Next time you'll act right, Wills,” he chided as he pulled out the tweezers and went to work pulling the glass out of my skin. Once finished, he applied the antibiotic liberally and wrapped me up before pushing me onto my stomach and seeing to the cuts on my back.
See the thing was... it wasn't regret. Him taking care of me? It wasn't out of regret or out of concern for my well being. He took care of my wounds because he didn't want there to be any reason for me to ever have to go to the hospital, to ever get a chance to tell anyone what was going on.
He left me in the tub when he was finished cleaning me up. I didn't cry. I suddenly found myself out of tears. All I felt was sad. So incredibly sad.
