Happy Families
Lavender looked across the pillow at him. His plump face, thick and pink, yet with a sallow tinge too, from all the drinking. His skin glistened slightly from tiny beads of perspiration, lingering. He turned over, tugging the duvet off of Lavender. She heard quiet snores come from him, buried in the rose-bud pillow. Let it last, she begged silently, to anyone who might be listening. How could she believe in God? After all she's been permitted to suffer! How could any loving god let her life her life out in misery like this? She pulled her knees up to her chest, and she could see the ugly purple and black marks blossoming up under the thin material of her night-dress. She put a tentative finger up to her face, and felt the ugly welt, still weeping blood, under her eye. She would have to put a lot of make-up on to cover it, before she went to work. She got out of bed very carefully, so as not to disturb him, and nearly stepped on the broken bottle, that was lying on the carpet, seeping foul-smelling liquid into the carpet. Sighing, Lavender picked up the pieces, and took them into the kitchen. She tipped them all into the dustbin, except for one long sliver, which she cradled fondly in her fingers for a few seconds, then took it in her right hand, and drew it deeply across her wrist. She breathed deeply as the blood started to flow out of the cut, and soon she was slicing at her arm again, then again…
She heard him get up, and quickly dropped the piece of glass in the bin, before pulling some bacon out of the fridge.
"Good morning," she heard herself say, as he came into the kitchen, and sat down, unfolding the morning paper, like the night before had never happened. Lavender pulled her wand out of her dressing-gown pocket, and used it to turn on the gas on the cooker. As she slipped two rashers of bacon onto the sizzling pan, waves of nausea overcame her. The meat cooking was like human flesh cooking. The cuts on her arm smelt like the raw, bleeding bacon. Those pieces of meat were her, in her life, boiling, crying, and dying. Shakily, she spooned them out of the saucepan, and onto a piece of crispy golden toast.
He thanked her profusely when she sat the plate down in front of him, and kissed her on the cheek. Lavender fought the urge to pull away, and somehow pulled a smile, that must have looked as fake as the show he was putting on. Now he was telling her he loved her. This really was too much. She stumbled back into the kitchen, and took a long drink of water, noticing with gruesome fascination, the way the blood on her arm was congealing. It was a familiar sight, nowadays.
Lavender worked for the Ministry, as head of the Astronomy department. She had yet another boring day, with yet more paperwork, and the unfortunate sacking of an incompetent secretary. She constantly hitched the skirt of her neat blue suit down over her knees, to hide the bruises. Non-one noticed, or cared enough to say anything. She was lonely in her job, lonely in her marriage. She might be the youngest ever woman at twenty-four to be head of section at the Ministry of Magic, but it hardly meant a thing.
She picked up Rosie from the playgroup, and drove her home, in the sleek Ministry car that came with her job. Such a nice life, it would appear to any outsider. She earned thirty thousand galleons a year, had a handsome husband, a beautiful daughter, splendid, elegant house in the suburbs of London…
He didn't return home until late that night, when Rosie was safely tucked up in bed, dreaming three-year-old dreams. Lavender was drifting from dream to miserable adult dream. She clutched at the duvet in her sleep, and immediately shot awake as the front door slammed shut. She heard his heavy foot-steps, and sighed, mentally preparing herself. She heard his body slam heavily into the wall as he stumbled drunkenly up the stairs. He slurred his speech as he threw himself at her, but she got the picture as he punched her hard, and ripped at her hair. The rape was the worst part. How can a husband rape his wife, she thought dully, the fear numbing the pain and her senses as he tore at her clothes, and threw her around the bed.
Afterwards, when he finally lay asleep, snoring, she stared into the darkness, ignoring the pain, and concentrating on the morning, when she would cut herself again. It gave her a release from her life, and in a strange warped way, it was like having control over herself again. It was herself hurting her, not him. She was boss, and could do what she liked.
Why didn't she just walk out? It was a question she often asked herself. She was a coward, that was the answer. Too scared of the threats he made. If she left him, he'd tell the world about her past… She'd loose her job, her child. Besides, he could be so caring, so loving… Just when he came home drunk, it was like he was a different man…No, she could put up with the pain. It was the only way to carry on. Things could be worse, she thought, fingering her wrist that he'd smashed into the wall. Things could be worse.
*
Four months later, and nothing had changed. Something was gone, that's all. She hadn't had a period for weeks…
Lavender put a tentative hand on her stomach. She had put weight on. But she couldn't be pregnant, not now… Tears coursed down her cheeks. It was bad enough to have Rosie in a loveless marriage, with a father who could any day turn violent on her too. Not a baby. Please God, not a baby.
She went into town, and surreptitiously bought a pregnancy test from the chemist. She brought it home, the oh-so discreet white box in the translucent pink bag. She knew what the result would be, and as the two blue lines formed in front of her eyes, her vision blurred with angry tears. A baby. Another punch-bag. As long as it wasn't a girl, that's all she asked.
A week later, she went to have a routine scan at the wizarding hospital. It showed a girl. She started to feel happier though, as the maternal hormones kicked in. He hadn't been violent for weeks, he'd been his old, loving self. If only it could stay that way…
He raped Lavender that night, and it was then she threatened to leave, for the first time in years.
"Oh yes?" he snarled, shaking her arm roughly. "I'll tell everyone about your past. No! Not very nice, is it? How would your friends feel, if they knew what you used to do?"
Lavender cringed away from him, naked and vulnerable on the bed. She sobbed dry, empty tears. He carried on, tormenting her. "They wouldn't want to know you, if I told them you were a hooker! That's all you are, a filthy, dirty prostitute!"
"No!" she cried. "It was a mistake, years ago…"
He shook his head. "You whore," he spat. He raised his arm, and hit her head, and punched her over and over, in the stomach.
"No, no!" she sobbed desperately. "The baby!" But it was too late. The door banged shut, the foot steps fell heavily on the floor. Lavender cried so hard she couldn't breath, the tears falling down her body, mixing with the blood.
A few hours later, and she lay on the floor, still, wailing like a child. The carpet was soaked with blood. She screamed at the terrible cramps passing in waves through her body, and tore at her skin with her nails.
*
He came back, the next morning, remembering nothing about the night before. He found her, dead in the bedroom, her hair spread out like a funeral shroud, blood covering the floor like a sheet. A note lay beside her.
Peter Pettigrew, ex-death eater, cried in a way he had not done since he was a little boy, as he read Lavender's handwriting.
You killed our baby, so I killed myself. Now who's the boss of our marriage? Forever, Lavender.
The gun was still clutched in her white hand.