Page 12 of The Sound Of Us

My toes curl inside my four pairs of socks, instinctively recoiling from the memory of the heel of Frank’s boot. God, why didn't I put on my shoes?

My head is still pressed to the table, my mouth dry. Terror snakes its merciless arms around me. Pepper whines from the other side of the kitchen door.

Then I’m dragged out of my chair. My slight frame crashes into the wall. Scrambling to my feet, I swallow lumps and lumps of terror, bracing myself for the first real blow. My hands come up on instinct to protect my face. I can’t have visible bruises. Not this week. I’m starting a new job on Monday.

Frank’s open palm connects with my ear.

The ringing. God, the fucking ringing. I lose my balance with the force of the hit, sliding across the floor once more.

Just a few more. Then I can beg him to stop. Just a few more before his ego is filled to capacity that he is indeed stronger and better than me. Until he’s satisfied that I look as much the useless, cancer surviving corpse of a husband as he thinks I am, lying on the floor like this. So weak I can’t take a few hits like a man.

“I’ll bet you sucked his cock like a real bitch,” he spits above me. Curling my legs underneath me, I keep my head down and take two more open palmed slaps across the side of my head.

It happened more than ten years ago, I want to scream. And what I did before this marriage has nothing to do with you. The screams for justice lie trapped inside my chest, fear chasing away any courage I might have been able to conjure up.

Frank pushes his fat index finger into the center of my forehead, forcing my face up and the back of my head into the leg of the chair. A wince escapes my lips, and that earns me another resounding hit to the side of my face.

Head bowed like a pious nun, I whisper as if praying, “I’m sorry. Please, Frank.”

“Do you see what you made me do?” Franks huffs, short of breath.

“I’m sorry, Frank.” I fucking hate you. The screams inside my head drown out the rest of Frank’s heaving breaths.

“You always do this, Axel.”

One boot lifts. The pain, from memory, registers in my brain and my body before he even strikes. My toes curl inside my socks and this time I can’t stop the tears. I feel the excruciating pain even before the heel of Frank’s boot comes crashing down on my toes. A howl flies out of my mouth, weak and helpless.

“Why do you always fucking do this, Axel?” He swipes my plate of food to the floor. Beef stew lands on my three-layer sweatpants.

Frank stalks across the kitchen. His breathing has changed. The scrape of his boots across the floor is calmer. The fridge door whines with the fast yank. Clink of beer bottles. He’ll be gone for at least fifteen minutes. Enough time to clean up.

Part One of NO LUBE FRIDAYS is over. I survived. Again. It’s all that matters.

I spring into action the second the front door slams shut, holding the tears back and ignoring the pounding in my head and the sides of my face, and the throb of my toes.

First, the food. I scoop the bits of beef and vegetables back onto the discarded plate. Then the gravy, wiping the remaining mess on my sweats and thanking Jesus in quick, short prayers that I don’t have to clean up pieces of glass this time.

And once that’s done, the toilet seat bears the weight and burden of my sorrows. Locked doors are not allowed for the bathroom, so I cry quickly. It isn’t with much effort that the tears fall.

I’m not the choking, heaving sort of crier. If you can imagine it, picture me sitting on my beloved toilet seat, my back rounded with sadness, my temples pounding with rage I’m not allowed to feel or express, and tears dripping down my cheeks while I stare into the light bulb hanging from the ceiling. I don’t wipe the tears away. I just sit there, stiff and unmoving, while my sadness and rage fall from my eyes and onto the floor.

And when the time on my phone says my crying time is over, I stand under the shower, letting the spray join my hopelessness. And even that is on a tight timeline.

By the time the front door jerks open again, I’m warm inside the duvet—a false sense of safety—secretly re-lubed and wearing only one set of clothes. Different outfits for different forms of abuse and all that.

Pan lids and plates clink in the kitchen. At the sound, renewed tears fall down the side of my temple and seep into the pillow.

I don’t know what I hate more: Frank’s beatings or his affection afterwards. Acquiescing to his affection always feels like I'm betraying myself. Betraying all the secret tears.

Like a tape on re-run, Frank enters the bedroom and flicks the light on. The bed dips with his weight on my side. Covertly, I wipe the side of my face. I’ve cried many tears on this side of the bed with Frank lying next to me, oblivious. But on the rare occasion he’s caught me, what I got was a shove between my shoulder blades and fuck, but you and your crocodile tears.

Sliding a plate of food across the duvet, he reaches over and runs his finger over my hair and down my face, hooking his index finger under my chin and forcing my face up.

“I brought you food,” he says. A smile tips the left side of his mouth upward, gentle and kind.

I ignore the food. “It hurts me when you do this, Frank.” This small window of freedom to say how I feel will last only as long as the smile on his face.

“I just get like that sometimes, Ax. I don’t know why. Maybe I need therapy, like you’re always telling me.”

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