Disclaimer: I don't own a thing

Wayne had left for work; Dylan was in her room, napping. For a few hours, she'd have peace, and, more importantly, time to pull together the frayed strands of her chaotic life into something that resembled beauty and order. 'Resembled' because it would never be reality, but it was the illusion that kept her heart beating.

The first step took her into the bathroom, guided her hand to the light switch and her gaze to the sorry reflection that stared back at her in the mirror. Wayne had had an unpleasant evening on duty the night before-and it showed on her face. Her left eye was black and blue, swollen shut; one cut sliced through her lower lip, another through her right eyebrow, both courtesy of her husband's wedding ring. An ugly bruise colored the length of her right cheek and the fading remains of another could be seen above the collar of her blouse. At least he hadn't tried to choke her this time; her vocal chords had just started to recover from the strain.

The reaching of a pale hand towards where the cover-up sat on the corner of the sink was automatic, the top unscrewed without a single conscious thought. Only half-aware, she noted that the container was nearly empty and she'd have to run to the drug store for a new one soon. She used to buy the more expensive cosmetic brand, but when she found herself making the purchases two times in three months, she had become more practical.

Applying the concealer just as meticulously as she does everything else in her life, the bruises were soon invisible to the unknowing eye. There was little to be done about her black eye, however, at least until the swelling went down. It would have to be written off as the result of yet another accident, the details of which she would concoct upon being asked. The most ingenious of storytellers would envy her ability to spin together a believable excuse in a matter of seconds, she's had so much practice.

She smoothed back her hair and took one last look at her reflection before leaving the bathroom. Her next stop was the kitchen, where dishes lied in the sink, waiting to be washed. She scrubbed each one relentlessly, not setting it aside until each one shone as if just brought home from the store. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted some dirt on the floor, and as soon as the dishes were done, she found herself mopping the linoleum until it, too, was sparkling.

Once the kitchen was spotless, she moved onto the living room, vacuuming the carpet and polishing tabletops and cabinets with relish. At one point she had to pause to feed Dylan lunch and play with her a little, another welcome distraction, but as soon as the child was once again distracted, she resumed her cleaning. By the time evening rolled around, the entire house was gleaming with perfection, not a single speck of dirt in sight, not a single thing out of place. It didn't look like a house that belonged to a sociopath and his damaged wife and that allowed her to believe, just for a little while, that it didn't. But then the front door banged open, the smell of alcohol drifting in, followed by a slurred, "Where's my dinner, Kathy?"

Reality had come crashing back in