“Randall. Please, stop,” I whimper desperately.

My body was tired.

Bruised.

Tears fall from my eyes and their saltiness mixes with the metallic taste of blood dripping from my nose, or my lip, possibly both. I allow my body to slide down the kitchen bench. The clashing of pots and pans being thrown around the room drown out the sound of Randall’s voice.

A typical Wednesday night.

Poker night.

Each week, around eleven o’clock, I was dragged from my bed, naked. I was expected to be at my husband’s beck and call. As always, he was past intoxicated, and the whiskey fuelled his temper.

I was his outlet.

His release.

His punching bag.

Randall pulls me from my thoughts when he yanks me to my feet by my shoulders. His grip is rough and a whimper escapes my lips. His dark demon-like eyes burn through me as he snickers.

“What have I told you about whining, bitch?”

Pinned between the bench and his oversized beer gut, I stand there, my head level with his chest. My five-foot-eight size was no match for his gorilla-looking six-foot-three frame.

A mix of whiskey and cigars on his breath makes my stomach roll. His thick, black beard scratches my naked shoulders as he attempts to whisper in my ear. I shudder with contempt.

“You’re my little slut,” he says, scowling. “Which means anything I want to dish out, you gotta take.”

His words come out as a gruff but loud whisper. Goosebumps spring up all over my naked body. Every light in the house is on and the neighbourhood was deathly quiet apart from our well-known Wednesday wrestling match.

“Now, where were we?” he drools, fisting my sweaty hair and tugging my head back to look up at him. “For fuck’s sake,” he says with disgust. “Go clean yourself up, woman. You’re a right mess.” He throws a cloth at my face and pushes me away.

I scamper toward the bathroom. Locking the door behind me, I tend to my bruises and new facial lacerations. I stare back at myself. I should have been horrified by my red-rimmed, glassy eyes, the purple bruising, and the deep red gashes.

It was the reflection I saw staring back at me much too often. I push away from the sink and finish dabbing the dried blood from beneath my nose.

“What the fuck is taking you so long, Cindy? I need that filthy little mouth of yours around my dick. Right fucking now,” he finishes yelling as he bangs on the door.

My skin crawls. My lip is split open and stings like a bitch. I can’t take it any longer. How had I allowed this to become my life?

Always bruised, forever broken.

Tears well up in my eyes again. I take a deep breath and struggle to control myself before they begin to fall. He is waiting on the other side of the door, cursing and shouting for me to suck his cock.

At some point, I loved this man who has now become a monster.

My own personal hell.

I don’t know how many beatings I’ve taken over the past ten years. I guess I should have been happy with the four years we had together before he turned into a disgusting, drunken, abusive pig. Nothing about the man made me happy.

I wasn’t even angry with him for all the pain he’d caused.

I was simply numb. A shell of a human being.

The door bursts open, pieces of timber splintering around the busted lock. My eyes are wide as my half-naked Neanderthal barges in, jeans hanging open below his grotesque belly, his half-hard dick in his hand.

“On your knees, bitch,” he orders, pushing me to the floor. With no regard for my split lip, he thrusts his now fully erect cock into my mouth. His fingers claw the back of my head, holding me over his length as he pumps in and out.

Raping my mouth.

I wanted to gag.

I need the night to end. Hopefully, after he blows his load, he will pass out on the lounge and let me sleep alone.

“Suck me dry, baby,” he demands with a slur as he pumps harder and faster. My throat is raw, my lip burns and I taste blood in my mouth.  My gut churns as I kneel on the floor of our tiny bathroom and give my drunken bastard what he believes he needs.

But doesn’t deserve.

I try to relax and open my airways to take him deeper, mentally willing him to come so I can get a reprieve from the nightmare.

Finally, he throws his head back and his come spurts down the back of my throat. He pulls out and yanks me to my feet, caveman-like, by the hair. I wince in pain as I struggle to stand firmly.

“Now get outta here, you filthy bitch,” he yells, pushing me out the door so hard I fall against the opposite wall. The darkened hallway is lined with pictures of happier and younger versions of us on our wedding day. The impact of hitting the wall causes one to come crashing down.

The frame drops from the wall directly on top of my head. I shriek loudly from the unexpected assault. A throbbing pain sets in immediately.

“Shut up, bitch, or you'll wake the neighbours,” Randall yells loudly, picking up the broken picture frame and hurling it down the hall.

He follows the mess back to the kitchen. It was then I thought I heard a knock at the door. Someone had come for me. It was all I remember thinking as my mind blanked and the darkness took hold.

“Cindy, you better fucking wake up and clean this shit up.” Randall slaps my face, his putrid breath enough to wake the dead.

I had no idea how much time had passed, but when my eyes finally open, everything looked the same. With my hands clasped together above my head, Randall drags me down the hall and over the broken glass from the shattered frame, each shard of glass piercing my bare skin as I am raked over it, piece by tiny piece.

I scream at him to stop, but he laughs. An evil laugh giving me no comfort. Or hope. A loud knocking sound vibrates through the house. Someone was banging on the front door.

Again. Still?

Hope fills my heart.

When the front door flies open, Randall drops me where I am and stumbles toward the front of the house.

“What the fuck are you doing here, old man?”

Oh no, it must be old Mr. Burke from next door. He and his wife, Doris, have come to my aide a few times over the years—mostly when a situation has escalated.

I didn’t want them to get involved because there was nothing they could do. Randall's creepy brother was the police in our town. A sergeant, not just any old cop. He only dealt with what he saw fit.

Even his goons were too scared to stand up to him. I feared for my elderly neighbours every time they got involved. I would hate for something bad to happen to them because of me.

“You no-good baboon, treating your wife like some piece of property you can destroy!” yelled old Mr. Burke. “Stay back! I'm coming in to take Cindy to our house until your drunken arse is at work tomorrow.”

“Like fuck you are, old man. Who the fuck do you think you are?” Randall growls.

“I'm a man who will not tolerate this shit anymore. Now stand back or I'll pop you in the kneecap.”

My body stills at the sound of a clip. He has a gun. Holy shit.

“Mr. Burke,” I call out timidly, hoping my plea for help doesn’t make Randall go crazy.

Moments later, Mr. Burke is in the hallway. Horror fills his eyes as he stares down at my naked brokenness. My pale skin is bright against the streaks of blood.

Silent tears start to fall.

I am racked with shame and filled with embarrassment that this is a typical night for me.

My heart breaks open. I know it shouldn't be like this.

“Ok, girlie, let me get you a blanket. I'm taking you home to Doris tonight. Over my dead body will you spend another moment with him,” Mr. Burke grumbles.

I point down the hall toward my room. “My robe is behind my door,” I tell him weakly.

I try to cover myself as I attempt to sit up.

Mr. Burke returns promptly with my robe, his pistol tucked into his trousers. Randall has probably passed out. He is strangely quiet.

Mr. Burke hands me the robe and turns his back until I am respectably covered. I am so grateful and happy in times like these I can still feel gratitude toward the right people.

As I am ushered out the front door, I hear Randall babbling from the couch in the living room. “Stay the fuck away, you...slag. Don’t you think you’re coming back here!”

The door closes on him, and my body starts to relax more and more with every step we take toward Mr. Burke’s little cottage.

*****

HOURS LATER, ONCE I’VE settled into the spare room of Doris and Roger’s home, they let me borrow their phone to call my family.

The only family I had left was my life long best friend, Missy.

I dialled her number and she answered almost immediately. When I told her it was me, she freaked.

“Oh my God, Cindy. What’s wrong? Are you in the hospital?” she asks without taking a breath.

“Missy, I’m fine. But it’s time.”

“Time?” my friend echoes.

“Randall is leaving tomorrow and will be gone until Sunday the following week.”

That is all I tell her. A lot is weighing on my words, so I hope she understands without me elaborating.

There is a brief pause.

“I’ll be there Saturday.” I let out a silent breath. Only three days and I’ll be on my way to freedom.

“I love you.”

“Love you, too,” she tells me before hanging up.