The only sounds in the room were the soft, echoing clink! of silver on porcelain and our quiet breathing. Charles sat at the far end of the table, away from me and yet still too close for comfort.

We had been married for only a month, but if felt like a year to me: nothing had improved between us. Charles somehow had managed to keep his violence away from me, but I lived in fear for the day when he would actually strike me. I knew it would come, but I could do nothing to delay it: like watching a train wreck.

I told my parents of my fear, but they passed it off as nonsense, as I wore no bruises. I anticipated it, and that fear sometimes stopped me cold, iced my heart and froze all thought. I couldn't believe I was living this way: appeasing my husband in any way so I could save myself.

Charles grunted, and my head snapped up. He glared at me as his fork picked at the food on his plate.

"This chicken is too bland," he said, putting another piece into his mouth. "I thought you said you'd marinated it,"

"I did--it tastes fine to me." I immediately regretted the words, and I looked down at my plate, not daring to look anywhere else.

I heard the plate slide sluggishly against the tablecloth; Charles huffed in frustration, and I glanced up just in time to watch him pick up the plate and throw it against the wall. I flinched as it crashed, shattering on contact, and fell to the floor; the chicken stained the wall. He pushed himself up from the table, and sauntered back to the bedroom, where I knew he would get a drink from the secret liquor cabinet he kept. I trembled in my seat, afraid of his sudden violence . It took me a minute to collect myself; I went over to the crash and tenderly picked up the pieces of porcelain. I sighed as I brought them over to the sink--it had been a wedding gift from my parents.

I threw the chicken away, and wetted a napkin to clean the grease from the wall. It didn't give way very easily; I gave up after only a moment or two, deciding instead to clean up the dining room table.

I had sufficiently pushed Charles from my mind when he came back into the kitchen; he watched me as I washed the dishes.

"You know," I heard myself say, not understanding where I'd gotten the sudden courage to speak, "that plate you broke was a present. I wish you'd be more careful." I knew that those words were a mistake--what in the world had made me say them?

Automatically, I turned my head to the sound of his footsteps, and I watched him advance towards me, his eyes nearly murderous. I did not have time to react as his arm raised and the back of his right hand hit my jaw as it swept across my face--the hit was powerful, and I was sent back against the counter. My knees buckled from fright, and I slid down, cowering at his feet in my terror.

"Don't you ever," he growled to me, swaying slightly. I could smell the whisky on his breath. "Ever talk back to me, y'hear ?"

I could only nod through my fear, and Charles ambled back to our bedroom. I was frozen in my shock for a second before the pain seeped through. I sobbed, and the tears streamed down my cheeks, landing in cold drops on my hands.

I knew it. I knew it. I knew he would hit me. With a trembling hand, I touched the side of my face that he'd struck, and it was tender. The sobs rocked through me, and I covered my face with my hands.

After a long time, the sobs died out, but I still trembled, the fear still strong in my veins. I was too terrified to get any closer to Charles than I already was, much less share the same bed.

I slept on the couch that night.