His lips captured hers in a way with which she was unfamiliar. His touch was not soft this time, not loving. His calloused hands left bruises on her body. Crude words issued from his mouth, deep and menacing; an animal caged. The way in which he claimed her body, marked her as his, was desperate, almost savage. And when he left her this time, it was not a lingering farewell. There was no longing in his eyes to stay; only anger.
Raw emotion had compelled him to visit her room this night, had driven him to make love to her in such a brutal fashion. His undisguised cruelty had shocked her into complying with his wishes. She had neither the energy nor the willpower to refuse.
She lay curled in a fetal position, arms crossed over her chest, shaking uncontrollably. She could feel the places where he had bruised her, had handled roughly the parts of a woman meant only for gentle caresses. In the darkness, she had seen his face in the illumination from the hall, a bright golden light filtering through and tricking her eyes into seeing an angelic man. But he was evil.
Tears held back in his presence spilled onto her pillow, soaking the rough cotton. She could feel every cut, every bite and bruise, her senses hyper-aware. The sheets were too scratchy, the room too cold. The sliver of light under the door was too bright, too glaring. The darkness clung to her skin like a thick, velvet cloak, enveloping her and quickening her breathing, forcing her heart to beat faster, faster, a maddening thumpity-thump thumpity-thump in her ears.
This sensation was new, this feeling raw and unmistakable. She could try to rationalize, say to herself that it was simply an impulsive act, a one-time occurrence. But she would be wrong, and she would know that she was wrong. This would be the first of many such nights, curled in her blankets, wondering when he would come. For, as she well knew, it was not a question of if he would come, because he would.
The emotion that drove her blood to pump faster, to make a cold sweat break out on her pale brow, was fear. Fear was what compelled her, the second night, to dive beneath the bed, only to be dragged savagely out by her ankle and thrown against the wall. He hadn't bothered with the bed that night, but it would make no difference.
Fear had driven her, on the third night, to sequester herself in the wardrobe, push the moth-eaten coats on their wire hangers as far forward as she could. He had pulled her out by her auburn hair, thrown her across the room. Her head hit the bedpost and she blacked out. When she awoke, it was to find that he had done as he pleased with her, though she had been unconscious.
All I want is peace, Lord. She prayed, not knowing whether or not God existed, and if he did, whether he was listening. Save me from this hell.
He did not come for six nights after that. Six long nights she waited, nerves wracked, wondering if he had lost interest, or if this was some sort of demented test. Six short days she slept, weak sunlight filtering through the red curtains, making her appear sickly and weak.
On the seventh night he came, and this time, he wasn't holding anything back. She pleaded with him, crawled away into a corner, crying, and when he reached for her, she screamed, loud and piercing. He unleashed his considerable fury on her, breaking three ribs and one frail wrist. He punched her in the face when she struggled, splitting her cheek open. In the dark that night, she fell asleep to the steady drip-drip-drip of her own blood staining the sheets.
The following night, he came to her room, found her lying on her side on the mattress, her back to him. She would not resist again. He reached for her hair, pulled her roughly off the bed.
She lay staring up at him with wide, lifeless blue eyes, her mouth suspended in a silent scream.
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