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My father’s words echoed in my head. Like nails down a blackboard, they had the power to make me wince at the memory even as I escaped him at work.
His cruelty hadn’t ebbed in the months since I came home with a kitten. Or should I say, his cruelty to me hadn’t ebbed, since both my mother and Duchess, the cat, saw only the best of my father.
In fact, there seemed to be a steady increase in malice. His every interaction with me was now just a barrage of insults, judgments, and threats, and I was starting to feel the effects.
It tainted my sleep with nightmares, and I felt no joy at waking the next morning. My soul felt heavier. Beaten down. When I tried to ignore his words, to tell myself something positive to counteract him, it became harder and harder to believe the good. Despite my efforts, a part of me was absorbing the words he spat.
I tried to understand that it wasn’t really him but the drink and that he had demons from the war that were hurting him and causing him to lash out, but understanding a person’s viewpoint didn’t stop the damage they caused.
Standing in front of the mirror in the nurse’s room, I tapped my cheeks, trying to return some color to them. My violet eyes seemed duller even as I flashed myself a forced smile. Sighing, I straightened my gown.
Ugly. So ugly that you were right to send yourself to nursing school. No man would want you.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. His voice and my poisoned thoughts shouldn’t be able to follow me here. I couldn’t escape it at home, but the hospital was my safe space.
I did my rounds, checking my patients with a quiet demeanor and a small smile. Each one asked if I was all right, to which I forced a laugh and said, “You’re the patient. I’m supposed to ask you that.”
Even your patients think you are incapable of helping them.
His voice seemed louder today, booming in my ears instead of whispering in my mind. I didn’t understand why, but it distracted me. Depressed me. Even chatting with my colleagues at lunchtime didn’t cheer me up.
Toward the end of the day, Sister Martha called in that deep voice she had, “Margaret! We need you. Come here.”
I sighed at her use of my first name but dashed down the ward to find a small gathering of people at the entrance. “What is it?”
Sister Martha pointed at a bed, directing the porters where to place the patient. Doctor Adams stood hovering to the side, waiting to examine the patient.
Heaves and moans from the porters echoed around the hall as they placed her on the bed. She screamed.
I gasped.
The poor woman’s entire body was red and swollen. Her eyes were so inflamed they couldn’t open, already turning from red to purple. Her nose was at an unnatural angle, and blood dripped from her lips.
The porters pulled the curtain shut behind us and their footsteps echoed across the wooden floors as they left.
“Who is she? What happened to her? An accident?” I whispered to Maureen, another nurse called in to assist.
“Mrs. Jenkins. I think she’s been beaten,” Maureen told me.
“By whom?” I hissed.
“Her husband.” Maureen gave me a sad smile. “Claims he was just correcting her, as is a husband’s right.”
Anger incensed me, and I clenched my fists. “To the point of a hospital visit?”
I watched as the doctor examined Mrs. Jenkins, pressing on her stomach, which caused a yelp of pain and a moan.
“Where is he now?” I asked, my blood boiling.
“He left her here and told her that if she lived, he expected dinner on the table tomorrow night.” She lowered her voice and continued, “It’s incidents like this that make me glad I’m unattached.”
“I agree. What an evil man.”
Sister Martha was standing behind us, listening. She hissed, “Now is not the time for your suffragist views. She needs help.”
“We await your instruction, Sister,” Maureen said amiably while anger stirred in my gut.
Doctor Adams’s voice drew our attention. “Can you tell me where it hurts the most, Mrs. Jenkins?”
