The kitchen was black as a cellar and deafening. A constant pounding roar throbbed through Anna's brain. She recognized it as her pulse; she breathed open-mouthed, crouched, trying to be completely silent.

He was there. Again.

Somewhere in the dark, hunting her. Anna didn't know which way to step or turn but she had to get out of there, get away. She listened with excruciating attention, fighting the panic that pulsed in her mouth like horrible metallic candy. Don't move yet, she thought, don't-

He seized her by the hair again, twisting and tearing her scalp. Anna screamed, the most hated sound in the world to her, the most hopeless sound in the world, the scream that only she would hear-her own scream. She was alone. And he had her.

Anna dove away from him. Her shoe caught on something and she went down and down.

She woke on the way to the floor, managing to reach out and landing on the heels of her hands and on her knees. Behind her then the familiar sound of the covers being yanked back and her husband's voice, husky with sleep,

"Anna!"

Anna crawled to a sit. She sat shaking, staring at the same slice of moonlight from the window, frill-edged through the curtains, that she had seen when she had finally dropped off. How long ago? One minute? An hour?

Her hands rang with pain, the stinging moving up her forearms and down to her fingertips. She stretched her legs on the floor, her night gown draped over them; there was a faint dark seeping over little spots on her knees. The scabs had opened up again.

He slid down on the floor next to her, not reaching for her. They had perfected it by now. She wouldn't let him touch her until she had completely woken up because at first she had scratched and slapped him, fought him. Even when her mind began to register that it was John her body, operating alone in its panic, continued to fight for what seemed like an eternity. She couldn't bear to strike out at her husband so he kept the agreement. He waited with his hands palm-up on his legs, blinking, moonlight spilling over his cheek and glittering on the edge of his hair which was ruffled comically from the pillow.

Finally she said, "I'm sick of this, John,"

"I know you are,"

"It seems like it will never stop,"

"It may take a very long time, yet,"

Anna was seized with the anger again and pounded her fists on the floor, the pain feeling very good just now. She gave a long moan of frustration, then stopped as he said,

"Please, Anna, your hands, please,"

"And meanwhile, what about you?" her voice was shaking, "You must be sick of this,"

"I hate what it's doing to you. I'm not sick of it,"

"Why not?" her voice had that bitter edge it held quite often now; she was afraid that he would get used to it. He never spoke to her in that tone. She had never wanted to use that tone on him. It hurt her to be treating him this way.

"Because I believe it will get better over time. And because it's you. I can never be sick of you,"

"How do you know it will get better?" Anna's head was suddenly heavy, and needed to hang down. "It feels like it never will,"

"They thought I wouldn't walk again, when they first saw the wound," he said. "And I knew people who were shell shocked and who had lost brothers and friends. It's not like what you're going through. They signed up for the war. And the way you were violated...it's different. I saw women who had been violated, what it did to their spirits, what it cost them. But I didn't know them. I can't know what you're going through. But I believe, I believe Anna that if we do it together, we will come through it the best way possible,"

"I want it back!" now she sounded like a squalling child to herself, and could not help it. "I want my life back! I want to be myself again! I miss me!" she laughed bitterly. "Do you miss me?"

"You will always be...if you were permanently disfigured, you would still and always be my Anna,"

"I'm numb sometimes. Sometimes I can't feel anything. No pain even. But I can't feel my love for you either, nothing,"

"I understand that,"

"You do?"

"Yes. I felt that way, for a long time after I stopped drinking and everything was so hard. It was like my feelings had died-"

"And then the terrors come back," she interrupted him, "In the hallway or...anywhere, especially if I'm alone,"

He opened his mouth.

"And I'm not that person, John! I hate it! I hate it more than I can say!"

"I know,"

"And I'm tired. I'm so tired and I'm tired of crying and I'm sick of thinking about it and I'm sick of what it does to you. I wish I could...cut it out, rip it out of myself,"

"It will lessen. I believe it will. But we have to be patient,"

"You're always telling me that, it seems,"

"Am I?"

"I'm sorry," she was finally able to reach for him, lay her hands in his. He took her wrists in little feather-light squeezes, checking the bones. It didn't hurt. They weren't broken or sprained. But it didn't even seem worth saying that out loud.

"If you're angry," he said, "Be angry. Be...enraged. At me. And don't go downstairs alone. You don't have to do that, there is time for us both to be there. Come and get me to be there with you. When you are sad, cry to me. Just let it be me. That's what I want from you. Let it be me,"

"Of course it would be you," said Anna, hearing her voice ring hollow, as if he were a disappointment. It was not the way she wanted the words to sound, not at all. She reached forward to touch his chest. "It would always be you," she had to put effort into saying it now and felt false but under everything she knew she meant it. "My husband, and my friend," she held his hand to her cheek and began to cry again, her feelings rushing back, "My dearest, dearest friend,"

"One minute at a time, one hour at a time," he said, "That's how we'll do it. Let's stay close and go minute by minute, hour by hour until each day is through, and then we'll get through the nights, too. We will just take it all as it comes,"

"If not for you..." dry little sobs shook her.

"There's no reason to think of that. Are you tired, my darling? Can I read to you?"

"Tell to me. Hold me and tell me a story of your mother,"

"Alright,"

Anna curled next to John with her head on his chest, letting the deep, soft throb of his voice take her mind. Moonlight fluttered between her lashes as she teased in and out of sleep.

"My Irish great-grandmother told the story of the Handless Maiden. A miller went so poor that when the Devil showed up to offer him riches he said he would give anything. So the Devil asked for his beautiful daughter..."

The story was not a pretty one. There was a sharpened axe, a man cutting off his own daughter's hands, and tears upon tears. But for some reason, it was soothing. It was someone else losing, someone else being maimed. Would the miller's daughter come through? Anna followed as she could.

But finally, she slept.

Anna woke. The moon had gone down.

She slipped out of bed and padded across the cold floor to the window. The world was absolutely still. All the people she knew slept without a nightmare every night, innocent and unsullied. Anna couldn't stay asleep, even without the nightmares. It must be the stain on her. She turned and looked back at the shadow of John in the bed and hear Mrs. Hughes' words again, "But it's not his fault, surely?"

It wasn't. None of this was his fault, but he was having to pay the price for what had happened.

That was wrong.

Anna shivered in her nightgown and stared out the window at nothing. She would have to do something, but what? She couldn't keep dragging him through this with her. He was being so generous, so kind, but how long would he be able to sustain that with so much strain on them both?

It was time for her to take the situation in hand, to set herself to rights. She must shore up her courage and get past this. She wasn't sure how. But she knew where to start.