"I'm not, darling." I shake my head, swallowing hard. "I understand we have a schedule to keep and I want to make-up the lost time."
He stands there. His body pressed against my back, so that I can't read his face or read his body. All I can do is wait and pray the next minutes won't be filled with his version of unyielding putridness he considers love.
"Take off your panties." He demands, stepping away from me to give me room. I hate this. It's demeaning, but so much better than the alternative.
Slowly, I bend down and slide my hands under the hem of my dress and grip the material. I drag them slowly. I don't want him to conclude I have anything to hide, nor does he need a reason to say I'm being a bitch.
I step out of one leg, then the other, and hook them on my finger to present them to him for inspection. I don't dare face him; he'll say I'm wanting to be confrontational. Nothing is further from the truth, but I can't do a damn thing about it now.
He rips them from my hand, pressing the lace to his nose. My stomach churns. "Good girl."
"May I finish preparing the food?" My lips tingle as my long-held breath blows over them.
He reaches around, grabbing me, making me feel worthless. "This pussy is mine, don't ever fucking forget that. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Weston." I struggle with the urge to vomit.
He moves closer, gripping my crotch hard. "Say it, Harper."
"I'm yours." I murmur, fighting back my tears and the rising bile.
His hand tightens, causing me to gasp. His teeth scrape against my face. "Louder damn it."
"This pussy is yours." I force them through a tightened jaw. He disgusts me, but I would never tell him right now.
Weston fists my hair, yanking my head to his shoulder. "You now have less than twenty minutes to put my dinner on the table. Don't be fucking late with it."
"Yes, Weston." With my answer, he releases me and I start to work. I move quickly, getting the food and setting the table as it cooks. I still to go to the bathroom, but I can't take a chance leaving the meal.
I keep an eye on the clock, cutting corners where I could without it costing me in the end. Weston has guidelines for food preparations. I rush to the table, placing the last platter in the center.
The moment I think I've made it; I spot a stain from the sauce on the cloth. There's nothing I can do, I scoot it over, hoping to cover the stain until after dinner. I step to the side right before he enters the room again.
He pulls a chair out, waiting for me. I lower my head; I slip into it. "Thank you."
"Despite your tardiness, it looks as though you did well." He sits, spreading his napkin on his lap.
I plate his food, serving it to him before I sit down with my own. He pours the wine and starts eating. Dinner goes, as always, quiet, and painfully slow. I despise the chicken recipe he's asked me to cook. He wants a fight and scrutinizes my every bite.
"Is there something wrong with your meal, Harper?" He studies me, hoping to goad me, I'm sure.
"I'm savoring it." I smile sweetly, attempting to keep my tone light.
He drops his fork and fists his hands. "Do you not like the food I purchased?"
"It's wonderful." My voice cracks as I continue to eat, hoping to appease him, but my gut tells me nothing's going to stop him.
"Are you dieting?" His nostrils flare, flaming his anger.
My stomach knots as I shake my head, answering him. "No, not since the last time you asked me to."
"I suppose you're not hungry, let me help you with that." He takes my plate, dumping it onto the floor. "Clean it up, now."
I scramble from my chair, putting the plate in the sink and grabbing a towel. As I approach the table, Weston moves the plater, and the stain jumps from the table. His eyes snap to mine, fury raging behind them.
I have no time to react, to prepare for the back of his hand as it connects with my cheek bone. The blow knocks me off balance; I reach for the wall, trying to prevent my fall.
It only helps him, I'm close enough now he wraps my hair in his hand. Weston drags me across the floor to the table, pushing my face into the food. After years of this, I'm prepared not to make any sound; it only enrages him.
"Clean the fucking floor, Harper." He seethes as he leans over me, watching my every move, making the hair stand on the back of my neck.
Weston was nothing like this in college, or at least, not until we were serious. His family made excuses for his outbursts, saying they were fits of jealousy. Even when he turned up wherever I went, I played it off.
At first, it was sweet gestures. Surprise encounters and the unexpected dates whisking me away. He changed. My family tried to warn me, finally begging me not to marry him.
I convinced myself he would stop once we were married, he kept saying he was afraid of losing me. I thought he was madly in love and that my family didn't understand him like I did.
"I need water, please." My voice breaks, or was that my heart, I can't tell anymore. I want out. If I only had a chance to go. Over the years, so many people have told me to leave. If only it were so simple.
Weston pulls me over to the sink. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound. "Do it, Harper."
I grip the counter, pulling myself up. Even though this has happened time after time, too many to count, I'm chilled to the bone with every strike of his fists. I'm rooted to the spot, not because everything in me isn't screaming to run or fight, but I have no doubt if I try, it'll be worse.
I know he wants to knock me down; this is his sole purpose of having me stand. He wants me down in the dirt, begging him. I never know when it's coming, just that it will.
He blindsides me with a punch to my head, ringing my ears and blurring my sight. I stumble, clinging to the sink to keep upright. He's relentless, hitting me until my knees buckle.
The back of the head is always the first, although he prefers my sides and back. He pummels me, weakening me to the point I can't even protect myself. I take a shot to my kidneys, causing me to vomit.
Weston kicks me again. His disgust with me is clear when he flinches, stepping away from me. He's not bothered by the blood on my face, but piss scares him.
"For fuck's sake, Harper!" He shakes the tip of his shoe as though it got on him. "God damn! You're fucking disgusting, clean this shit up." He storms from the room, leaving me in his wake.
I want to lay here until I die, it's the only escape I can imagine that will free me of him forever. Yet, I can't or won't. My body's broken, but he will never break me.
Then I am reminded of my favorite words, 'I will be here, always.' I struggle to move, gasping in pain, and praying I can work fast enough. I need to clean this place up before he returns.
Willing myself to move, I crawl over to the table and remove any signs of food. Slowly and albeit painfully, I straighten the kitchen up and return it to its spotless beginning.
After emptying the mop water, I walk over to the dog bath. We don't own one. It came with the house. There's no way I'll be allowed upstairs to clean up, so I do it here.
I keep shampoo and soap down here in a cabinet in the half bath; I have clothes in the laundry room. I clean up as best I can, working on my face in the half bath where there's a mirror.