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Chapter One
Lena
He opened the front door. Rusty hinges creaked in the otherwise stillness of the night as he entered our dark, two-story home. No one could have slept through the sound of the door slamming behind him or the thump of his footsteps on the stairs as I pictured him lumbering his way up to the bedroom where I supposedly slept. He swore with dissonance, and every bone in my body stiffened as I squeezed my eyes so tight they hurt.
When a thump, followed by a clang, resonated through the house, I visualized a picture crashing to the floor, glass shattering as it toppled to the bottom of the steps—the one and only picture of us on our wedding day, no doubt.
Troy was drunk again. I knew he would be—knew it when he left earlier that evening. I’d come to learn it was an ugly habit with him most nights. I stared up at the dingy white ceiling of our darkened bedroom, tainted with water stains from a leaky roof. A sliver of light from the street lamp peeked through the window and illuminated a slender line across the wall. I stayed still as a corpse, breathing shallowly and praying he was drunk enough to pass out.
No such luck.
My body involuntarily stiffened when he tumbled on top of me, groping at my breasts, forcing his hard slobbering lips against mine. I forced myself to go limp; my rigid body would only make him mad. I stopped breathing for as long as I could to ward off the stink of booze and cigarettes emanating from his pores and his hot, sour breath. A vile tincture accumulated in my throat, and I fought back the urge to vomit.
Don’t get me wrong; it wasn’t always like this. There was a time I enjoyed being with Troy when making love was something special, something exciting. But not now, not like this. There would be no titillating foreplay here, no show of affection. Not from him. That wasn’t his style, at least not anymore. His style was brutal, self-serving, and revolting.
I tried not to flinch or look surprised as he ripped my thin nightgown down the front, exposing one of my breasts. Any show of negative emotion might set him off in the wrong direction.
“Get rid of this fucking thing.” The demand slurred from his throat. Then with a sickening laugh, he tugged the cotton away from my body and tossed the shredded material to the floor. But, of course, there was no point in refusing him. That was something I’d learned the hard way. My face would fare better if I surrendered to his disgusting sexual assaults.
My underpants were next to endure his rough, impatient hands as he tugged them down over my feet. I doubt they even made it to the floor. They’d become lost somewhere in the sheets.
There used to be a gentle, caring man behind those dark blue eyes—so blue they always reminded me of what I thought the deepest part of the ocean looked like. Now, I only thought of the darkest part of hell—where the fire burned everything to black embers before it moved on.
He stood, fumbled with his zipper, and stumbled while pushing his pants down. I lay there naked, trying my best not to shiver or show fear, trying so, so hard to keep the tears from flowing. I didn’t dare move, didn’t dare look at him. I ordered myself to lie still—to make my mind go somewhere else—then I could tolerate the loveless act that was about to happen, as I’d done so many times before.
I searched my mind for that time not too long ago when sex with this man was welcome, a time when I felt special and loved. Oh, I still felt special. A special kind of punching bag if I didn’t do what he told me to do.
He practically fell on top of me, the length of his body smothering mine. Stillness forced on me. I ordered myself not to cry out from his heavy mass, knowing any type of complaint would make him violent. The fact that I couldn’t seem to take in a full breath of air helped me keep quiet.
“Now, that’s better. Oh, yeah, baby,” he groaned in my ear, slurping wet, boozy lips down my throat as he shoved his not quite hard erection into me, rocking back and forth.
It amazed me that he could even get the tip inside. The smell of alcohol on his breath tonight was heavy, and I wondered if he’d finish before he grew frustrated and angry.
It didn’t take long for his fury to escalate into a blind rage. Cursing, blaming me for not arousing him enough. “You frigid bitch! Show me some affection, you stupid cunt!” In his outrage, he backhanded me across the face.
I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I always was. I didn’t cry out, didn’t shed a tear. I’d become numb, I think, because if I did cry or scream, he would only beat me more and yell at me to shut up. However, this time, I found my apathetic response wouldn’t work either.
He slapped me again and then dragged me up by my hair, tossing me to the floor. “Get out of my bed, you worthless slut. Who you been fucking so you don’t want me anymore? You have somebody better than me out there?”
I was too stunned to answer, so he kept on shouting, “Right, ain’t nobody gonna wanna fuck an old has-been like you.”
It didn’t matter that I was only in my twenties. My body and spirit were broken beyond repair, damaged, and I felt as old as his accusations. He stood staggering over me and laughed, one foot on either side of my legs for balance as he reached for himself. I honestly thought he would urinate on me just to show how little he thought of me. He’d done it before and said I wasn’t even worth the piss of a dog. But luckily, this time, he grabbed both my arms and yanked my limp body to my feet.
“You think you can get a better lay than me? You’re wrong. Nobody else will have you. Nobody else wants you. You’re a stinking dirty whore! That’s what you are.”
In the past, I would have begged him to stop, but these days my mind numbed more and more with each assault. It wouldn’t make any difference if I answered him or not. It would always be the wrong answer. Staying silent was safer. It made him mad, but it didn’t give him any more ammunition. Usually.
He laughed again before spitting in my face, and then I felt the bone of his knuckles crack against my upper cheek. Or was that my bone that cracked?
Then he threw me against the wall. The back of my head slammed against it, and a traitorous groan escaped from my throat as I collapsed. This time, I thought, he just might kill me.
He kicked me in the stomach and again in my side before he staggered away to the bathroom. I wasn’t sure which hurt more: my face, my stomach, or my ribs.
The sound of him urinating gave me a reprieve from his wrath, and I decided to try to make a run for it. I honestly didn’t know if I’d even make it down the stairs, but I had to try. My legs shook, and every inch of my body ached. I made it to the top of the stairway and had a death grip on the railing for fear I would lose my balance and tumble down the long staircase.
The hallway behind me, as well as the stairwell before me, seemed almost invisible in the darkness since Troy hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights before staggering upstairs. I didn’t even try to locate the switch to illuminate my way. I’d take my chances in the dark, not wanting to alert him to my whereabouts. Barely able to stand, I stumbled my way down to the small kitchen. If I stepped on broken glass, the pain of it didn’t register through my numbness.
I struggled to find the strength to stay on my feet and gripped the counter, leaning against it for support.
