Page 59 of The Sound Of Us

Terror is a living thing, uncoiling inside me and threatening to crush me from the inside.

“You think I need sex from you?” A second shove between my shoulder blades.

The nightstand drawer jerks open. Every inch of my body pulses. Heat and goosebumps gather at the bottom of my spine and I just can’t breathe.

Just turn and give him what he wants.

But I can’t. I can’t move. And I can’t let him touch me after Eli has touched me.

The cold metal of Frank’s gun digs just above my spine. Silent screams gather in my throat, ripping through my oesophagus like wild banshees.

I’m going to die. My mind scrambles for the date so I can die knowing the date I took my last breath. I can’t remember. I don’t know what day it is. I don’t know if Frank will let Ben come to the funeral. Will they arrest Frank? And then… Eli. I’ll die knowing his touch. Isn’t that enough?

Frank’s harsh breath flies into my ear and then the gun slams into my shoulder.

He’s only going to hit me.

Relief floods my body as tears leak from my tightly shut eyes. It hurts so bad. Pain explodes with each hit. One. Two. Three. The bruises won’t heal. They haven’t been healing recently, but I can’t think about that now.

The bed dips with the weight of Frank moving away.

Curled up in a ball, I press my fingers to my ears as covertly as possible, but it doesn’t help. I can still hear him.

“I don’t need you, you stupid fuckin’ cunt. I can go anywhere and get it. You’re lucky I come home every day to you.”

I think it’s my silence that sends him over the edge more than my rejection. Frank lands his fist into my head. I know I should defend myself. Put up a fight and let him win so he would stop.

But as images of Eli race through my head, providing an anchor I’ve never had before, all I can do is hold myself in this ball, in this fetal position, and let him hit me. My non-response is my defiance. For me. For Eli. I can’t let Frank feel great after doing what he’s doing to me right now. I refuse to satisfy him and his sick need to control me. I can't let him inflict wounds, only to come back later and try to heal them as if he hadn't been the one to cause them. Not this time.

His feet connect with the small of my back, kicking. My body slides closer to the edge of the bed. He doesn’t stop. And I don’t beg him to. Not this time. It’s almost euphoric, this small victory, no matter how fucked up it is. The more he hits me, the more I dare him to with my silence.

A final slap across my head and Frank’s foot connects with my lower back, sending me flying off the bed.

Even then, I don’t utter a single sound, only making sure that the hits were superficial and that I don’t have a concussion.

Frank pulls the blanket I fell off the bed with back up.

“Nobody needs you or your fuckin’ pussy, you cancer-ridden fuckin’ cunt,” he says and turns over on his side of the bed with all the bedding wrapped around him.

I remain there on the floor for a long time. Tears slipping down the side of my face, trickling into my ear and wetting the short strands of my hair on their way down.

I’ve mentioned before that I’m not a dramatic crier. I possess the ability to break into a million pieces without so much as a twitch of a muscle.

Now isn’t any different.

The floor is cold, made worse by the draft coming in from the crack at the bottom of the window. I lay there, grateful that I have two sets of clothes on to ward off the cold and that my head is still intact.

I close my eyes and listen for Frank’s breathing. I can pinpoint the exact moment he drops off into sleep, the kind of sleep he’s not likely to rouse from until tomorrow morning. His breathing evens out, his inhales noisy and his exhales coming out in sputters. At that, I rise from the floor.

The left side of my face is wet. I let it dry out while I quietly move around the room. The gun is still in Frank’s hand, almost at the edge of the bed. I think if I were to mark the exact moment I made the most terrifying decision of my life, it would be this moment. Standing at the foot of the bed, watching Frank grunt and click and sleep peacefully with a fucking gun in his hand.

The audacity pushes bile up my chest and, like being engulfed in a tornado, I’m confronted by what the reality of my life is and what it should have been… and then what it could be.

My heart, broken for my own life, moves my feet, in search of my sneakers.

Rage sends me to the bathroom, rummaging through the bottom drawer between old razors and medication. I get how bad it looks, stealing the condoms that may or may not belong to Frank, but is there ever anything good about having an affair?

Regret for the last ten years hastens me to the front door.

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