Albicant

TW: gore, domestic violence

Dark, red, cake. Chocolate cake slithers into my nostrils, wraps itself around my brain. Giving it a hug, then squeezing, squeezing, I can't breathe. I can't-

"Cheryl, this cake is amazing!" His business partner exclaims, zoning me in, something Mr. Andrews.

"Cheryl you must listen when a man speaks to you, it's not right you always day dreaming, especially when work is due." He chomps cake, frosting drips from the corners of his mouth.

"My apologies, I hope you admire the cake." I retort, shyly staring at my palms lying in my lap.

"You must teach my wife the recipe. Thoroughly too because she can't cook anything in her Goddamn life." Mr. Andrews chuckles hoarsely, he chokes on the cake.

His choking hammers into my ears, I can't hear anything else, the low fade of a song hums in my ears from the radio sitting upon the mantel. The song is gone, but the sound of him choking captures my focus...keep choking, keep choking-

"Excuse me, went down the wrong pipe, aha!" The businessman wipes his mouth with a white cloth, its innocence drowned away by brown cake.

The napkin now a brown color, I pick all the dishes up and napkins up and take them to the kitchen.

I feel his eyes on me, he won't let go. His eyes stain my dress. A chair squeaks, his weight bends the floors. He's coming. His arms wrap around my waist.

"How about you go to the market and buy some cigars for us. We'd like to celebrate our business deal." A speckle of spit lands in my ear, I shutter slightly, he squeezes me hard.

"Go."

He loosens up, and I brush past him, forgetting my wallet behind.

The air outside is tart with rain, and I eagerly breath it all in. The only air I've gotten in weeks.

I pass our neighbors, the Jones, and I give the husband a wave. He's plopped on the front porch, invitingly he smiles. Not a warm invitation, I may add. I quicken my pace, and I soon arrive at the market, the bell rings. It won't stop ringing until the man at the counter asks me several times what I want.

"Oh, sorry, I'd like some cigars."

"Ok, where's your money?"

My lips purse, and I fidget with my fingers.

"I left my wallet at home, let me check my pockets."

Finally, after minutes of excavating, I discover some money in my coat pocket, and the coins dribble into his dirty palm.

"Have a lovely day, ma'am."

"Y-yes, you too..." I mumble, my head feels as if it's spinning.

I walk home, and it's night now. I am flash bombed by headlights flying past me. Everyone drives too quickly on this road. I feel Him behind me.

"You better hurry, I won't be happy that you've been out so late."

"I have a migraine is all, I feel I've been very quick."

"Remember what happened last time?"

The welts on my back glow red, they throb still.

"No amount of powder can hide the cuts on your cheeks." I whisper to Him.

"That's right. Hopefully he's not upset tonight." He disappears, and I'm in front of our home.

Our home sits in an upright position, perfectly portraying a perfect 50's couple. If only there were little children with kites running around the yard. Our yard is green, it's green with sickness. He's always out here, gardening. "Hello newspaper boy!" He says cheerily, "Hi there Mr. Flanagan! How's Mrs. Flanagan?" The boy waves back on his red painted bike, wearing a striped t-shirt, and brunette messy hair. She's not ok.

Mr. Andrews is gone now, his car is no longer in the driveway, I'm late.

The clock ticks, it ticks away time. There isn't much time.

"Cheryl." I hear him hum, like a hot rod waiting for zoom. He's precisely where he is every time I am late. Standing at the floor of the stairs, his face shaded by the night. I hear the low blare of the TV, Perry Mason.

He's got a beer in his hand, it wobbles under the huge grasp He has on it.

"You're late, Mr. Andrews left already. What am I to do now?"

"I-I don't know."

"What's that?" He asks, snidely.

"I'm not sure. I really do apologize, I had a headache and it took me a moment to get my bearings." My gloved hand flies to my forehead, I try to act in pain, though I know I will be feeling pain that I have never known.

After moments of eerie silence, except for the low blare of the television, I feel his breathing next to me, we both anticipate what will happen, though I know he will be the one to initiate.

Soon I feel the battering no woman, no human, should ever experience. I'm on the floor, being tossed like a doll a toddler is playing with. I'm hit repeatedly, hands of a man who should die. Who should die.

When he's finished with me, he snorts his nose, and picks up cigars that have landed quite away from me.

"Next time, hurry, you dumb slut." He walks over me towards the television where I hear the squeak of a chair.

He turns to volume up and reclines the seat, the flick of a lighter, the smoke of a sin.

I usually feel hazy, somedays it's hard to find a day where my mind isn't clouded, but now my mind has been vacuumed and ventilated. I struggle a bit, picking myself up, but once I'm up, I stand with a strength I've never felt before. My heels click while I'm in the kitchen.

"Make me something to eat, and get me another beer." He hollers from the next room, I hear these requests, but I don't put them on my mental checklist like I typically would do.

Only one box is being prepared to check.

I swallow a bit of blood while he breathes and crunches empty cans of beer in the next room. I lean over the sink, and spit blood that swirls down the drain, I feel woozy, but my newfound rage has overcome me. My head burns with not only pain but new anticipation, I feel warmth drip down my forehead, down my back, it only strengthens me more. I yank open the utility drawer and find his hammer he uses for work around the house, I grip its handle in my hand until my knuckles turn white. Then I remove my heels, fearing he might sense me. I creep into the next room, where he's finishing his last can of beer, he burps a bit, and rubs the back of his head with his hand. I catch a glimpse of his gold wedding ring, and suddenly I'm flooded with memories of frosting and white and glee, how my body aches for real actual love, not just the love that is given to a slave. REAL love that a man and woman should feel for each other. But after this brief flashback, I'm soon brought back to the hatred I felt when he first beat me, when I was out too long with my friends, friends that I miss so dearly, and he slapped me across the face. I couldn't believe it, at first, but the sting brought me back to where he began hitting me repeatedly across the face, full on punches, crushing my cheek bones and my nose. I've never felt tears that full and that sorrowful before, like I really had something to cry about. The hammer is raised above me, and I slam it down through his skull. He curses, but before he has time to get me, I slam it down more times, he slumps in his chair, blood invading the charming green of the seat. I gasp, feeling the warmth of both my blood and his. He doesn't flinch, he doesn't move. He's gone.

I sigh, and begin chuckling. How big of a monster I painted him to be, now he lays there defenseless, maybe this is how he felt every time he'd beat me. Soon the adrenaline wears, and I feel shaky. The laughing comes to tears and I'm feeling lost like a traveler without a map.

"What now Cheryl?!" I sob for answers, but who is there to answer me? Surely not my dead husband.

After moments of darkness, I find myself dragging him across the front yard, using his shovel to dig a hole in his garden. Once the hole seems big enough, I dump his body in there, and begin piling dirt.

My mind is empty now, not enough sips of liquor can numb me. Perhaps I've always felt numb. I've always felt numb since I met him. So after I'm drunk and afraid. I call my mother for the first time in years.

She's weary, "Cheryl?" She says my name like it's a name she's never even thought of before.

"Mom..." I trail away, and soon I'm in sobs. She questions me, "What's happening honey? Are you ok?"

"Yes, yes," I hesitate for a moment, "I'm...ok."