DISCLAMIER: I don't own anything except my own character. I make no money from writing these stories. This goes for the whole story.
1938
Shit that is going to leave an uncover able bruise in the morning. I felt the warm liquid drizzle down my forehead as I was slammed against the striped wallpaper wall…again. Herbert had drunk a little too much, no strike that, he had drunk A LOT. Herbert Sobel was a Captain for the United States Army Airborne who happened to live on the base in Georgia, Camp Toccoa. I was his wife, Rory who was about ten years younger than him, gross I know, and also lived on the base with him. There was a special neighborhood that we live in (Think We Were Soldiers) where I gained my best friend, Mary (her real name is Miriam). Of course I had other friends on the street who were also married to officers but Mary was the only one who knew about the abuse. Most would wonder why no one else would notice the constant bruising on me, I know I would. I concealed these ugly impurities on me, compliments of Herbert by using heavy blending powder on my face and any open skin.
Ow, damn I seriously will not be able to cover it up now. Herbert drunkenly slurred that I was bitch or
around the lines of that while grabbing a fistful of my brown curly hair that I foolishly left down and
slammed it against a framed picture of me and Herbert. The glass that covered the picture shattered,
leaving chunks of it stuck in my face. I had been trying my best not to scream but the pain was unbearable. He
darkly laughed before pushing me to the floor. I was sobbing while at the same time trying to pick out
pieces of glass shards from my already banged up face. I thought of how at one point my face was
glowing and radiant, full of life. I laughed scornfully in spite of myself. I carefully got up and looked
through my good eye that was not blocked by the rising bruise on the bottom of my left eye. I saw the
mud prints of Herbert's boots leading out of the house. I slowly climbed up the stairs and up into our
bathroom to check the damage. I scanned my face to see that I could handle the cuts and bruises with a
little more attention than usual. You would also probably wonder how the people next door could not hear my
desperate screams. Or why I never told anyone about these mistreating. Well first of all Mary lived next
to me (that's how she found out and because one time when I was changing she walked in and saw all
the bruises on my body) and secondly was that the Wilson's, next door were never home. As for not telling anyone
it was a pretty confusing answer. I guess to explain why I could not tell you, you would have to go back a
few years to truly understand.
You are going to need a band of knowledge to really understand this hell of a story.