It was the worst night she’d endured since they said their marriage vows. Usually careful not to mark her face, he preferred her to always be presentable. How could someone take such care while in the throes of a violent rage? Last night he beat her with no concern for what she would tell the PTA.
Looking in the mirror, she gently tapped her foundation over the deep purple and yellow bruise that tarnished her left cheekbone. Ten years of covering the evidence of his drinking didn’t keep her from wincing as she grazed the raw skin.
The first beating was three months after they were married. It won’t happen again.He didn’t mean it. She repeated these statements and many others like them too many times to count. Most of the time, he was loving and kind. He lavished her with expensive gifts, loving to see her dripping in diamonds and dressed in expensive clothes. A three-carat diamond solitaire ring wasn’t common in 1952 and he thought it an appropriate gift after his big promotion. It doubled as an apology for raping her three times the night before. Did that make her a whore? He bought her silence, bribing her with everything she could ever want. Whatever it was, she was still here.
He never touched the children, but she knew it was because he had her. They were sure to bear the brunt of his abuse if she left. The thought of it made her reel with nausea. This was why she stayed, or, at least, that is what she told herself. If she left, there was no one else to take the children. The court would favor the father in divorce proceedings, like they always did. Suicide wasn’t an option either. How depressing that even ending it all wouldn’t end it all. She wouldn’t, couldn’t leave them. They were much too young to know when to run and hide. She couldn’t take them and start a new life; he would find her. He would always find her.
Until last night, she was pregnant. Not far along, but far enough that she knew. She hadn’t even told him yet. Screaming it at him as he tore her nightgown didn’t stop him. He had a tendency to transcend to another place as the frenzy took hold. Between that and the booze that dulled his hearing, there was no stopping his violent thrusting. The pain ripped through her abdomen and she knew the baby would never survive. There was no gasp of shock or double-take this morning when she awoke to blood between her legs. And so it was decided that it had to end.
Looking at her dressing table, her eyes fell upon the delicate thimble he had given her when they were still dating. It was exquisite. A piece that had belonged to his mother’s mother or someone far back in his lineage. A seamstress when they met, it had been a very thoughtful gift to protect her, but now it mocked her. A beautiful symbol of repression. Shelter for her fragile finger while the rest of her body broke beneath him.
She sent the children to the next door neighbor’s house for the evening and prepared his favorite meal. A smiling picture of domestic bliss, she greeted him at the door with scotch on the rocks and warm aromas wafting through the house.
“Nice to see you acting like a real wife.”
She lowered her eyes in submission, not wanting to ruin the evening by angering him before they had even eaten.
Taking care to never leave his glass empty, she glided through the dining room with platter upon platter as his breathing grew heavy. After dessert, she led him to the bedroom and sat him on the bed at 9:30. Rather than initiating the seduction he expected, she turned to him with a strange smile and brought her hand to rest just inches from his face. The thimble perched atop her middle finger, the only one raised, in her final act of protestation.
It was just as she planned. Never one to provoke, she summoned his uncontrolled wrath with this blatant message. The neighbors brought the children home precisely at 10:00, as he was pulling her body down the stairs in full view of the front door. No jury in the world would let him walk. The children would be safe and he would never break her again.
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Carlos Cortes Wednesday, 08 Aug 2012 04:16 PM
Nice one, Laura. I smiled because once upon a time we planned to compile a series of shorts with the title "Thimble Tales." The cover art would have included a manicured hand with a pretty thimble on a stiff middle finger.
"Perched atop her middle finger..." conjures a priceless image.
By Laura Riley
Wednesday, 08 Aug 2012 04:16 PM
Nice one, Laura. I smiled because once upon a time we planned to compile a series of shorts with the title "Thimble Tales." The cover art would have included a manicured hand with a pretty thimble on a stiff middle finger.
"Perched atop her middle finger..." conjures a priceless image.
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