Chapter 5
For a brief moment, Mary Anne Bruno thought back on how her marriage, the sacred union of the two lives that had entertwined since middle school, had begun. The crisp, clean air that was heavy with the intoxicating scent of spring-born lilacs. . .the sky, a vast azure canvas that spread out over the ceremony with not a blemish to speak of. . . the way that Logan's loving orbs told her that they were meant to be together, always, no matter what turbulent events had occured in their youth. If all that was true, she thought desperately, then why am I here?
Crumpled up in a dark corner of the basement, her small body folded up in fetal position, short earthen curls obstructing the view of her tear-sheened eyes, Mary Anne wept silently. A deafening crash sent a jolt of fearful surprise through her body, and tremors of sobs racked her form once more. She could hear the splinters of glass scattering across the linoleum in the kitchen directly above. Logan's vicious, demonic shouts and yells had run together into an intellligable, boisterous drone in her head. She had tried to be so accomodating and perfect tonight, hoping to have a peaceful evening, making sure that the house was spotless when he came home, and that the meat loaf was in the oven. But little Larissa had been entertaining herself with her watercolour book and happened to spill the cup as she attempted to dip her paintbrush in it, translucent pastel colours running across the cream-coloured carpet. Mary Anne was on her knees with soda water and a washcloth as Logan walked in the door. The rest was a blur. . .except for the sickening thud of flesh against flesh. . .and the warm, dizzying surge of pain that rushed to the right side of her face.
Logan had completely lost it. . .Mary Anne rushed to send Larissa over to the neighbors, the Valentas. She'd be safe over there, she knew. . .Mr. Valenta, or Ira, as he preferred to be called, was the most trustworthy man Mary Anne had ever met. Then she fled to the basement, not an uncommon occurence, and waited with a knot of fear and dread in the pit of her stomach for Logan to relieve his anger and to come downstairs to apologize.
After a few moments of silence, Mary Anne shakily stood up, smoothing her hands over her worn jeans and polo shirt. She could already hear Logan's footsteps making their way down the basement stairs. And there he stood, his face flushed with fading anger, hair tousled, muscled form heaving with the attempt to catch his breath, and overall, looking completely wiped out. Wordlessly, he held his arms out.
Mary Anne, feeling the familiar rush of relief and the overwhelming need to be loved, welcomingly slid into his embrace, her tear-stained cheeks buried against the roughness of his shirt. As his arms closed about her, she searched for that feeling of love that used to come so easily to her when she was held by him. . .but it didn't come. Involuntarily, she stiffened as he whispered words of regret and sorrow.
"Mary Anne," he drawled in his tantalizing southern accent, "You know I never meant to hurt you. . .I've just been having a tough time at work, baby, and I just needed to vent. . .I promise to never hurt you or little Larissa again, Mary Anne. . ."
The words that Mary Anne had heard so many times before slid right through her mind without leaving any sort of residue. Mechanically, Mary Anne nodded and stepped away from his embrace.
"Now, you go get Larissa from the Valentas. . .I'm wiped out, Mary Anne, I think I'll just head on up to bed. Go on and eat without me." A smile, a brush of a kiss on the cheek, and he was gone.
Tears of frustration built up and threatened to spill over once more. She was frustrated with herself, with her life, with how this must be affecting her child. Numbly, she threw on her charcoal peacoat and slipped on her loafers, and stepped outside. The crisp evening air bit at her face, stinging from the salty tears. She inwardly chided herself for not washing her face or drying it before going over to the Valentas . . the last thing she wanted was for anyone to notice that she was upset. .. especially not Mr. Valenta. . .
As she rang the doorbell, she hurriedly swiped at her face with her sleeve. She winced as she ran her sleeve over her eye, the numbness leaving, dull pain filling it's void. Mary Anne suddenly remembered that Logan had hit her. . the numbness and anguish had chased away the pain. Anxiousness was growing inside of her. . .she couldn't let the Valentas see her injury!
Quickly, she spun around to head back to her house when the door opened. "Mary Anne!" he called with concern. "Where are you going?"
Mary Anne turned to face Ira Valenta, a man in his early thirties, holding the door open. His muscular form was showcased in black mesh running shorts and a loose-fitting, ratty turquiose t-shirt--it was obvious that he, an avid runner, had just been out for a jog. A thin sheen of sweat graced his body, his gorgeous, silken raven hair falling in short, limp curls about his young, attractive face--yet his velvet brown eyes were filled with concern.
Mary Anne shook her head, trying to clear her slight attraction mixed with the fog of pain and confusion that she felt. "I'm sorry, Ira. . .I rang the doorbell and no one answered, so I figured you weren't home. . ." she lied, feeling a bit faint.
The purple bruise above Mary Anne's eye registered in Ira's head. "Mary Anne," he said with fatherly urgency, "would you like to come in and talk? I've got coffee on. . ."
The last thing Mary Anne wanted to do was talk. The horror that has been my life might just slip out, she thought, and shook her head gently, eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed. "No, I'd just like to. . collect my child."
With that remark, Larissa, a jumble of chestnut curls and energy, ran up behind Ira and wrapped her arms around her mother. "Mommy!" she squealed, the magic of being 7 erasing any thoughts about her mother's injury clean away.
Mary Anne knelt down and held her daughter for a prolonged amount of time. Ira watched with growing concern etched on his face and Larissa began to squirm. "Larissa," he finally said, "why don't you run along back in the den with Alexandriah. . .she and Alessa are watching Pocahontas. I need to talk to your mother. . ."
Larissa, glad to get out of the drawn-out embrace, ran back into the house. Ira watched as Mary Anne stood with an annoyed look. "Ira, I thought I told you. . ."
"Mary Anne, this has been going on for long enough. You have got to talk to me," he said urgently.
A dazed look washed over Mary Anne. She looked up at Ira through a fog.
"Oh, Ira. . ." she began, then slumped forward, falling into his arms, in a dead faint.
For a brief moment, Mary Anne Bruno thought back on how her marriage, the sacred union of the two lives that had entertwined since middle school, had begun. The crisp, clean air that was heavy with the intoxicating scent of spring-born lilacs. . .the sky, a vast azure canvas that spread out over the ceremony with not a blemish to speak of. . . the way that Logan's loving orbs told her that they were meant to be together, always, no matter what turbulent events had occured in their youth. If all that was true, she thought desperately, then why am I here?
Crumpled up in a dark corner of the basement, her small body folded up in fetal position, short earthen curls obstructing the view of her tear-sheened eyes, Mary Anne wept silently. A deafening crash sent a jolt of fearful surprise through her body, and tremors of sobs racked her form once more. She could hear the splinters of glass scattering across the linoleum in the kitchen directly above. Logan's vicious, demonic shouts and yells had run together into an intellligable, boisterous drone in her head. She had tried to be so accomodating and perfect tonight, hoping to have a peaceful evening, making sure that the house was spotless when he came home, and that the meat loaf was in the oven. But little Larissa had been entertaining herself with her watercolour book and happened to spill the cup as she attempted to dip her paintbrush in it, translucent pastel colours running across the cream-coloured carpet. Mary Anne was on her knees with soda water and a washcloth as Logan walked in the door. The rest was a blur. . .except for the sickening thud of flesh against flesh. . .and the warm, dizzying surge of pain that rushed to the right side of her face.
Logan had completely lost it. . .Mary Anne rushed to send Larissa over to the neighbors, the Valentas. She'd be safe over there, she knew. . .Mr. Valenta, or Ira, as he preferred to be called, was the most trustworthy man Mary Anne had ever met. Then she fled to the basement, not an uncommon occurence, and waited with a knot of fear and dread in the pit of her stomach for Logan to relieve his anger and to come downstairs to apologize.
After a few moments of silence, Mary Anne shakily stood up, smoothing her hands over her worn jeans and polo shirt. She could already hear Logan's footsteps making their way down the basement stairs. And there he stood, his face flushed with fading anger, hair tousled, muscled form heaving with the attempt to catch his breath, and overall, looking completely wiped out. Wordlessly, he held his arms out.
Mary Anne, feeling the familiar rush of relief and the overwhelming need to be loved, welcomingly slid into his embrace, her tear-stained cheeks buried against the roughness of his shirt. As his arms closed about her, she searched for that feeling of love that used to come so easily to her when she was held by him. . .but it didn't come. Involuntarily, she stiffened as he whispered words of regret and sorrow.
"Mary Anne," he drawled in his tantalizing southern accent, "You know I never meant to hurt you. . .I've just been having a tough time at work, baby, and I just needed to vent. . .I promise to never hurt you or little Larissa again, Mary Anne. . ."
The words that Mary Anne had heard so many times before slid right through her mind without leaving any sort of residue. Mechanically, Mary Anne nodded and stepped away from his embrace.
"Now, you go get Larissa from the Valentas. . .I'm wiped out, Mary Anne, I think I'll just head on up to bed. Go on and eat without me." A smile, a brush of a kiss on the cheek, and he was gone.
Tears of frustration built up and threatened to spill over once more. She was frustrated with herself, with her life, with how this must be affecting her child. Numbly, she threw on her charcoal peacoat and slipped on her loafers, and stepped outside. The crisp evening air bit at her face, stinging from the salty tears. She inwardly chided herself for not washing her face or drying it before going over to the Valentas . . the last thing she wanted was for anyone to notice that she was upset. .. especially not Mr. Valenta. . .
As she rang the doorbell, she hurriedly swiped at her face with her sleeve. She winced as she ran her sleeve over her eye, the numbness leaving, dull pain filling it's void. Mary Anne suddenly remembered that Logan had hit her. . the numbness and anguish had chased away the pain. Anxiousness was growing inside of her. . .she couldn't let the Valentas see her injury!
Quickly, she spun around to head back to her house when the door opened. "Mary Anne!" he called with concern. "Where are you going?"
Mary Anne turned to face Ira Valenta, a man in his early thirties, holding the door open. His muscular form was showcased in black mesh running shorts and a loose-fitting, ratty turquiose t-shirt--it was obvious that he, an avid runner, had just been out for a jog. A thin sheen of sweat graced his body, his gorgeous, silken raven hair falling in short, limp curls about his young, attractive face--yet his velvet brown eyes were filled with concern.
Mary Anne shook her head, trying to clear her slight attraction mixed with the fog of pain and confusion that she felt. "I'm sorry, Ira. . .I rang the doorbell and no one answered, so I figured you weren't home. . ." she lied, feeling a bit faint.
The purple bruise above Mary Anne's eye registered in Ira's head. "Mary Anne," he said with fatherly urgency, "would you like to come in and talk? I've got coffee on. . ."
The last thing Mary Anne wanted to do was talk. The horror that has been my life might just slip out, she thought, and shook her head gently, eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed. "No, I'd just like to. . collect my child."
With that remark, Larissa, a jumble of chestnut curls and energy, ran up behind Ira and wrapped her arms around her mother. "Mommy!" she squealed, the magic of being 7 erasing any thoughts about her mother's injury clean away.
Mary Anne knelt down and held her daughter for a prolonged amount of time. Ira watched with growing concern etched on his face and Larissa began to squirm. "Larissa," he finally said, "why don't you run along back in the den with Alexandriah. . .she and Alessa are watching Pocahontas. I need to talk to your mother. . ."
Larissa, glad to get out of the drawn-out embrace, ran back into the house. Ira watched as Mary Anne stood with an annoyed look. "Ira, I thought I told you. . ."
"Mary Anne, this has been going on for long enough. You have got to talk to me," he said urgently.
A dazed look washed over Mary Anne. She looked up at Ira through a fog.
"Oh, Ira. . ." she began, then slumped forward, falling into his arms, in a dead faint.