Prologue:
The first slap is always the most painful.
It brings tears to my eyes. Not from shock, or the horror of the act itself—though I feel both of those things; I always do. The tears are just an automatic reaction, reluctantly set into motion by my own tear ducts. It’s appropriate really, though I detest that they do it.
The second slap—to the other cheek this time—hardly hurts at all. I feel almost nothing as the rough palm of his hand makes contact with my cheek. I am too in contempt of the first slap for the second one to be painful. His actions—as usual—are repugnant and vile.
But it is what he does.
It is how we are.
I find the roughness of his hands bemusing. For a man like him, doing the type of job he does, his calloused hands are unusual.
When I don’t react to either slap, he steps closer, invading my personal space and stealing the air from my lungs. Or at least that’s how it seems. But that’s probably just the fear talking.
However I don’t back down. I don’t step back from him. I don’t retort with the things that I want to say; the uncouth words that roll uselessly around in my head with nothing and nowhere to land, because I will not ever say them to him: I am too proud and head-strong to beg for help, or to plead with him to stop.
His top lip curls up in disdain at my nonchalance of him and his brooding hazel eyes bore into mine. Then his too-large hand reaches out and grips my throat and he slams my body against the wall behind me. I was only a step away from it; I must have stepped backwards without even realising, and my head snaps back and bangs against the hard wall. So hard I almost see stars. I grunt in pain, and I see the glint of joy in his eyes at this; at my pain. It is always the same. I have fed the beast now.
I feel fear, but I refuse to show it to him, knowing that this is what he wants. Like a incubus he feeds off of me.
I grit my teeth and steady my feet. My hands turning into tiny, feeble fists at my sides. Because I won’t back down this time.
‘I won’t,’ I tell myself. ‘Not this time.’
I already know that I’m lying. But we do what we need to survive.
He leans in and smiles. The heady stench of Scotch is on his breath. And then he kisses me, hard. There is nothing romantic or loving about his gesture. The only things it shows is his will to control me.
The pressure of his lips on mine are more painful than the slaps to my cheeks. My bottom lip is split and it opens wider from his ferocious kiss. My blood mingles into both of our mouths, mixing with our saliva and the metallic taste of it spurs him on.
His hand paws at one of my breasts and the other releases my neck to reach down for the hem of my skirt. I open up to him, allowing him the space for his kiss to go deeper, his tongue moving across mine, and our teeth clashing.
In my head I am saying no.
In my head I am refusing him. Refusing this and all of his bullshit.
But it is all in my head, because in reality it is easier to accept this than to not.
Because I am his wife and this is my duty.
And more, this is exactly what I deserve.
Chapter One
Delores
Delores sipped her coffee.
The bitter black liquid burned her oesophagus as she swallowed down the too hot fluid. She didn’t wince though. Didn’t complain. Just took another sip and stared blankly out of the window at the heat-soaked highway.
So much had happened.
So much.
And yet, equally, so much remained the same.
The deeply planted ache was there though. It was always there now. A heavy burdensome feeling that filled her bones and made her skin itch from the inside out. A feeling of a thunderstorm, brewing in the distance. Clouds, heavy with the pregnancy of unshed tears ready to collapse from the sky at a moment’s notice.
“You sure you don’t want some pie with that? Coffee always taste better with a slice of pie.”
Delores looked up at the overly friendly waitress. She read her little white name tag—Sally. Sally spoke with a drawl that didn’t sound familiar to the area, over pronouncing the I in the word pie so that it sounded more like a y. Her auburn hair was piled high up on her head in a tight ponytail, a slight kink to the end of it that hinted at hidden curls.
She was pretty—pretty without even trying. The kind of woman that would have been cheerleader captain in high school and most definitely crowned prom queen. And yet now, her life was this: serving coffee to truckers in a diner just off the highway. A dead-end job that would lead to a dead-end future unless she escaped soon. Yet, her face was kind. Tired but kind, and still full of so much life.
Life. Life was so short.
You never really understood how short it was until it was too late.
Until you blinked and your reflection was no longer that of your youthful self. Instead you were looking in dismay at your sagging skin and tired eyes. But still, life went on. Until it didn’t, of course. Until the last breath left you as quickly and abruptly as the first breath had come. Like the slap of air into a baby’s lungs right after being birthed into a strange and frightening world.
“No thank you, just the coffee will do,” Delores replied.
She wondered, for a brief moment, if Sally still had all of her hopes and dreams. Her aspirations for a better life far from here. She wondered if she dreamed of more than this; the right here and the right now. She looked like she did. Even with the creeping tiredness around her eyes, and the worry that was hidden behind her perfect, too-sweet smile. Yes, it was plain to see that this woman still dreamed. She still hoped. Unlike Delores.
“You sure? Because you know, my grandpa always used to say that a problem always seemed easier to work through with a belly full of pie.” Sally smiled again, leaning over the counter to refill Delores cup, her low-cut top revealing too much cleavage. But it was unintentional, not deliberate in any way. The uniform was too tight for her and she pulled at the top half self-consciously. Unhappy, but not complaining. She smiled wider, her eyes meeting Delores’s.
“Your grandpa sounds like a wise man.” Delores smiled though the expression never reached her eyes. “But I’m not hungry.”
They stared at each other for a quiet moment. Two women, alike in so many ways, and yet so very different. Where Sally still had life burning bright inside of her—her spirit still fighting, still clawing for existence—Delores had nothing but blackness.
And she had no one to blame but herself.
Sally still held hope, but Delores never would again.
The pretty waitress patted Delores’s hand kindly before wandering off to serve someone else and Delores turned her attention to the world outside the steamed-up window of the rundown diner.
Summer was at full height. The bright July sun burning down on the cracked blacktop and sending heat waves up into the sky. It was hypnotic, staring at them, watching the strange steam dancing, like souls being released to the heavens. They seemed restless and empowered all at the same time.
Delores sighed heavily.
Restless. Yeah, she knew that feeling. She was restless too. But she didn’t feel empowered, she felt weak, like something had been stolen from her. There was an empty space buried deep inside her and no matter how much she tried to fill the space, it was like there was a hole in the bottom of it and everything leaked back out.