Choke

Trigger warning: Domestic abuse

A scream of steam somehow emboldened me to keep my silence. The scream muffled every sound, every struggle, every laboured wheeze. It was a wall both protecting and imprisoning me, the scream. If I had sat the kettle upon the hob earlier, if I had decided not to have my tea at this precise moment, if I had perhaps done anything different throughout the day then this moment; this opportunity would not have arisen. An opportunity? No, that wasn’t right. An excuse? A bolstering, a numbing … The scream of the kettle bade me halt, bade me to freeze and simply watch the performance unfold completely, deliciously interrupted.

He said not a word of thanks, made no comment on the freshly painted walls, the scrubbed bath, the ironed clothes. He made no sound as he entered the home, no response did he make to my pitiful attempts at conversation. No doubt had I emulated his silence he would have spoken. Yes, some sneer comment, some vile jab. I knew what to do, it was mechanical after all these years; I was but a robot. Cooking, cleaning, sexual pleasing. Nothing more but never ever anything less.

The meal I had spent the day preparing in between the other scheduled deeds was as routine as I was. Precise ingredients, precise timings, precise portions. Steaming and presented at the table for him to inspect before he even sat down to eat. He said nothing, his face betrayed nothing. I internally breathed a sigh of relief. Another evening with everything going as it should. My dining was quiet, mouth shut while chewing, no scraping of cutlery against the plate, no slurping, no elbows on the table, no bits of food falling from my fork. His eyes seemed to be on his own meal but I knew they observed me too; waiting. I finished my meagre portion and took it to the sink, placing it down gently. He hated the sight of an empty plate. He was ate slowly, methodically.

‘Would you like a tea after your meal my love?’ I asked as I had a thousand times.

He grunted; one I had learned meant no.

While the kettle sat on the hob I carried on with the neatly preened chit-chat and looked out the kitchen window. A hateful dark cloud passed the sun, smothering it. I pressed the tips of my fingers into my palm in a preordained order, a ward against pain; against imperfections. Then he coughed.

I turned to him, believing the cough to be my summons. His plate near empty, his beer can knocked over and its black angry contents spluttering over the white table cloth. His face was bright red and his eyes bulging. My heart exploded, adrenaline bursting through my body as it anticipated what was to come. My brain whirred into action hastily analysing all my actions that could have resulted in his apparent anger. He had inspected the toilet on his arrival, it was spotless. He had gone into the bedroom to change, everything was laid out for him, everything dusted and cleaned. I had prepared the correct meal for today all to the specifications desired. There appeared to be no error that I could note in my quick re-examination of my day. Only one explanation remained: his anger stemmed from some other source … but again I was to be its sole recipient.

He looked at me then and I was wrong. The schedule was interrupted, this was not according to his plans. His face was red, his eyes bloodshot but they were not filled with bubbling fury, they were filled with something new. Fear. Both meaty hands flew up to his throat and he opened his mouth. The kettle screamed.

Whatever guttural animal noises he made while his pleading eyes focused on me were drowned in the scream of steam. I stood with my back to the sink unmoving, simply watching. He hacked and grasped at his throat as if he attempted to claw inside and remove the source of his distress. The source. The fruits of my labour, the meal made perfect to his desires was lodged deep within. Suddenly he stood knocking into the table causing the remainder of his meal to splatter across the tablecloth. He reached a hand out towards me, an open hand. Not a fist, not a grasping hand. An open hand.

I felt then keenly the thick layer of makeup on my face and neck. The layers of foundation to hide the purple, the black and the yellow. I felt every ache and pain in my arms beneath my long sleeves. I felt everything that had ever been done to me in that moment, in his moment of need. His face going deeper crimson he stumbled towards me. His unfamiliar open hand now a familiar grasping one. The scream only gave me the strength of inaction, of total and complete inaction. I could not fight against my programming, moving or running only ended in a more net negative result. I would not move a muscle. His hand close to my face then he is on the floor; head clattering against the wooden flooring. The fall silent, the scream of steam seeing to that. His beer can slid across the floor where he had slipped on it.

Slowly, slowly the scream quietened and reintroduced me to the world. It was a silent world. Totally and completely silent. The dark cloud moved on and the sun shone through the kitchen window. My inspired paralysis was at an end, I could act.

‘You are right my love. I will go and get you some more beers. I will be back soon.’

Without looking down I stepped over the lump of flesh and bones on the floor and gathered my coat and shopping bag.

‘I will get something nice for tomorrow’s dessert. I think I will get something that I like. See you soon my love.’

I left and quietly walked to the shop.