Time After Time

Trigger warning: abuse

"Time After Time"

“ Family Secrets are secrets kept within a family...it can relate to physical or psychological abuse......crimes such as  murder” 

Excerpts from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

“Shut your mouth” he hissed in her ear.

She knew better than to respond other than immediately ending the conversation with the person beside her.

She quickly composed a serene smile, leaning into her husband as though he’d whispered some sweet endearment.

She knew the vise grip on her arm would prove to be an interesting progression through a rainbow of red, blue, purple, black, green and yellow shades, eventually receding to leave a blank canvas, fresh for more work from the artist. These bruises would join a history of older evidence of his handiwork. Bruises and scars veiled from public viewing by the modest cover of carefully chosen clothing.

Laughter in the room continued. The clink of glasses, the quiet background of pleasant music and bits and pieces of scattered conversation filled the space surrounding the vacuum of her husband’s magnetic hold on her arm.

Her false laughter honed into sincerity from years of diligent practice made those around her smile with pleasure at observing such loving signs of devotion between husband and wife.

“You’ll pay for this later you fucking cunt” whispered so softly that anyone listening, even carefully, would have sworn he’d said “later darling”.

 Oh, the tantalizing promise of what was to come. A lingering glimpse into the bedroom of this handsome couple.

The remainder of the gathering was a blur for her.

To all appearances she seemed to be present, enjoying and though  somewhat subdued, participating in the spirit of the occasion.

Many in the room remarked what a loving couple they were. The younger ones either sighing with a keening wonder if they’d ever find such a perfect relationship or enviously comparing their own involvements, which somehow just didn’t measure up. The older ones remembered with nostalgia the flames of early passions, ignited and fanned by the memory of young bodies alive with energy, eager to explore and find satisfaction in simply being with the object of their adoration.

Not a single person would have guessed that terror filled the wife’s head, overflowing into a heart which beat slower and slower with the dread of what she knew was to come. It spilled and flowed from one body part to the next leaving in its wake a sort of  numbness that in its own way provided the protection necessary to survive the unsurvivable. Her very soul, the essence of who she was, that last fortress of retreat in a losing battle took yet another direct hit. So many bombardments, so many attacks each one leaving in its wake a carnage of almost irreparable damage. And yet repair was what she did best.

Somehow the evening ended. They said their goodnights closing the door behind them as they made their way to the car. 

Silence, not a spoken word.

Sitting in the car as his sedate departure was viewed by an audience unaware that out of sight he would accelerate to a speed that jarred his wife’s body in a spasmodic jerk leaving another bruise on an unstained shoulder. 

Still silence, not a spoken word.

She sat in that vacuum of silence so loud it’s roar filled her ears with a shattering scream. 

Yet not a spoken word.

The car raced through empty streets, careened around corners that threw her from one side to the other and barely escaped a number of collisions on the course to their home.

Still not a spoken word.

They entered the house, he with a grim look on his face, she with a diminishing sense of terror replaced by resignation and acceptance of the inevitable lending strength to the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other. 

Silence.

As the door closed behind him she felt his booted foot in the small of her back, heaving her forward and slamming her into a table, scattering the displayed objects on its surface, sending her and them crashing to the floor. 

And the end of silence.

“You fucking clumsy cow” he screamed at her. “Watch the fuck where you're going.”

As she lay on the floor she made the mistake of trying to apologize, invoking a boot to the head that temporarily rendered her unconscious, holding her in a suspended state of animation, keenly aware of everything around her, but helpless to do anything but lie quietly waiting for mobility to return.

As she rose slowly to her feet his direction to “clean this mess up and there’d better be no traces left” rang loud and clear. Though she wasn’t sure about the exact  words she was hearing after the previous assault on her ear drum she understood enough to quickly begin the task of cleaning up the mess .

“Why I put up with you is more than I can understand, you are such a pitiful excuse for a woman - you’d never be able to find anyone else to tolerate your useless hide. You’re nothing but a waste of human flesh.”

She shivered in the reality that he was most likely correct.

“Get me my slippers and make me something to drink, I’m going to catch the tail end of the game.”

He sank into the sofa with a sullen look of contempt as he watched her limp towards the kitchen.

“And knock off that ‘poor hard done by’ act before I give you something to really complain about.”

She walked into the kitchen, but in a daring act of defiance did a quiet turnabout and silently made her way to their bedroom.

She gently closed the door and sat on the bed, knowing  without a doubt that she no longer wished to live. Her days had been numbered and the bleak prospect of those that might lie ahead broke her heart. Her soul had finally reached the end of its endurance to survive and carry on. Ground down to a smooth one dimensional line, without a single blip to indicate some last remnant of life, it had finally waved the white flag of defeat.

No amount of rational thought could stop her from going to the place she knew he hid his loaded gun.

She removed it from the box, feeling the comfortable weight that whispered the promise of sweet release.

As she held the gun in her hand she drew a deep breath of resignation, dizzy with the anticipation of peace and the final release from an existence she knew she could no longer tolerate.

She made her way back to the bed - a journey that felt like the passage of a thousand years.

She sat holding the gun for what seemed another eternity. In reality her absence had only been long enough to have aroused her husband's anger and send him in search of her, ready to further vent any unspent rage.

She never even flinched as he flung open the door just as she was raising the gun to her head.

The last words she heard were: “You stupid bitch, what the hell do you think you are going to……” and then, blessed silence as she pulled the trigger.

When the police arrived they busied themselves with the task of securing the death scene, carefully removing the gun from her cold stiff hand and meticulously bagging all the bits and pieces of evidence that would later be put together like a jigsaw puzzle which, once assembled would tell the story of what had happened in this room.

The perfunctory removal of the body after the M.E. 's examination, the notes made about contacting next of kin, all these were the little things that would close a story of heartache and tragedy.

The officers on duty were professional and knew how to do their job. Most of them had dealt with this scene many times in their careers. Some of them were new, wide eyed and valiantly staving off a desire to puke out their last meal.

They eyed one another, silently signaling an acknowledgment of the last remaining chore.

The lead officer completed the final act which was to place the handcuffs around her wrist as they gently led her outside.