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Maybe it doesn’t matter.
I glance over at the lifeless body sprawled out on the floor, his pants pathetically around his ankles, and I smile. Then I make myself comfortable. And I finish off my drink.
Chapter Two
Charlotte
The clock on his side of the bed reads 5:47 a.m. Predawn light filters ever so slightly through the tops of the blackout curtains. He is on top of me, pumping away. Our Wednesday ritual.
Sex is important in any marriage, so when Michael suggested putting it on the calendar, I found no reason to object. Between my flight schedule, his commute, and two children pulling us in every direction but the same one, Wednesday, predawn, was the only available calendar slot.
Seven minutes ago, when the alarm sounded, and he rolled over to my side of the bed, sweeping his hand across my thigh, I smiled. Michael is nothing if not punctual. Sure, I’d prefer coffee over rigorous thrusting first thing, but I admit it’s not the worst thing I could be doing.
Feeling him search for my hands in the dark, I offer up a soft moan. A distraction, so that the slight crook in the pinky finger on my left hand, and the nasty greenish-blue hue it has taken on, can remain safely tucked under the pillow.
Eventually, he finds it, and as he does, he shifts his weight, which causes my breath to catch. He takes this as a sign to increase speed, and all of a sudden, I hate myself for breathing. “Flip over,” he huffs, pulling out. “I want you from the back.”
Gritting my teeth, I methodically roll over. Michael has always loved my ass, it’s one of the few things time, gravity, and childbearing haven’t touched. The dim light doesn’t hurt.
He sees only what he wants to see.
White-hot heat sears down my lower back when he grabs my left hip, flirting with the bruises that have bloomed across my thighs overnight, anchoring me into position. He sighs, his breath heavy and hot against my ear. “God, you feel good.”
He doesn’t mean to hurt me. In the dark, it’s impossible to make out the telltale signs that adorn my body. In the dark, like other aspects of my life, this, too stays hidden.
Liar. My mind flashes back to letters etched into a tan, hairless chest, spelling out a word I know well. Gripping Michael’s forearm, I dig my nails in. Suddenly, he is not my husband. Suddenly, he is every man who has ever hurt me. Pain is equally intoxicating and suffocating in that way. The body doesn’t easily forget.
“Jesus, Charlotte.” He slows and runs his fingers up my side, stopping at my face, where he uses them to pry my hand away. “That’s going to leave a mark.”
His voice brings me back to the present. “Sorry.”
“Are you okay? It seems—”
“I’m fine.”
I’m not fine. Overnight the bruising that spans my torso has spread upward, snaking itself around my rib cage like vines climbing a trellis. Every breath is a reminder.
“Maybe you’d feel better if you let me take this off,” he says, fisting the old T-shirt of his I’ve refused to remove.
“It’s cold.” It’s the only thing keeping the laceration on my hip covered.
His eyes dart toward the clock. “I’ll warm you up,” he says. And he does. The pain comes cyclically, in waves with each thrust. It radiates angrily, building and subsiding, starting at the base of my forehead, traveling to the tips of my toes, and back again. My body, when pressed into the mattress, aches to let go, to give up, to give in to the pain, or the pleasure, or both. My mind, on the other hand, begs to tell him to slow down. So as not to prolong the session, I bite my tongue. The sweet-metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, keeping me in the here and now.
As he picks up pace, it helps to imagine the faces of men long dead. Slack jaws, lifeless eyes, ridged extremities. It’s meant to serve as a distraction, and for a moment, I feel a familiar heat building within me. I think I might actually come.
Unfortunately, the feeling dies just as quickly as it builds. Last night is still too fresh in my mind and clearly also in my body. I can’t get there. Wherever there is, it remains elusive, a place I know well but remains just out of reach. I can’t quite bring it into focus.
Unable to remain in this position without suffocating or crying out, I shimmy back onto my side.
“On your stomach,” he says. “Turn over. All the way.” It’s a half-hearted request, and thankfully, he does not stop to give me the chance to oblige. His hand pushes my hip into the mattress. “Char—”
Instinctively, I sink my teeth into his hand, an act of aggression that is met by one of his own. He twists my hair around his fist and pulls. It makes me smile. He wants to play. That side of him doesn’t usually come out this early. “I said turn over.”
“No.”
He tries to force me, which nicks an edge somewhere deep inside. The impulse to fight is there—the urge to reach for the knife, or the gun under the mattress, to make it stop. But then he slips his hands between my legs, where his fingers begin a delicate dance, and logic prevails. “That feels good…” My fingers grip the sheets. “I’m almost there.”
My lie has the intended effect. He speeds up.
