As soon as the door to the en-suite slammed behind her, separating her from her husband, she felt tears trickling down her cheeks. Slowly she peeled off her blouse, bra and what remained of her skirt and stood in front of the full length mirror surveying the damage. The bruises on her wrists she had expected and the red hand mark on her cheek where he had slapped her to silence her screams was also no surprise. What she hadn't expected were the brown and purple bruises that spread across her lower abdomen, crotch and upper thighs like dirty stains on the white silk of her skin. She looked as filthy as she felt. Turning to examine her clothes she saw that she had been bleeding. Considering the brutality of his attack she knew this was to be expected but still it surprised her. More than the bruises it made what had happened seem somehow more real.

Finally her brain switched onto autopilot and she grabbed a plastic bag, forcing her clothes into it, needing to remove anything that could possibly remind her of what had happened. The clothes he had torn from her that still bore horrific remnants of the attack seemed like as good a place as any to start. Finally she knotted the bag and opened the bathroom door, throwing them forcefully into the bedroom where they hit Michael with a dull thump. She heard him give a grunt of surprise and then pad from the room heading for the dustbin, instinctively knowing what she wanted him to do.

Slamming the door shut she was alone again. She switched on the shower to it's hottest setting, knowing that the heat would be unbearable but she couldn't think of any other way that she could possibly feel clean again. Stepping under the scorching stream she reached for a loofah and began to run it over her damp body, the physical pain she felt as it tore at her soft, damp skin numbing her emotional pain just enough to keep her from breaking down. She worked the loofah over her body suppressing cries of pain as the scalding water ran over flesh that had been scrubbed until it was raw and bleeding and waited to feel less tainted.

After twenty minutes of what felt like burning hot acid raining down on her increasingly tender body she realised that she could no longer put off examining the full extent of the damage. She started slowly, running her hands over her stomach that was bruised where he had punched her, continually needing to find new ways to release the hatred he felt for her. With every bruise she touched she would wince, working her way lower and lower until she reached her most sensitive area and released a cry of pain as her battered body protested at her rigorous examination. Biting her lip to suppress the tears, she remembered a time not so long ago when such exploration was a pleasurable experience. It had never occurred to her that it could be so painful.

Her cry must have been louder than she had realised because it bought Michael to the door. She knew he was there before he made a tentative tap on the door and asked if she was okay. She could visualise the wince that would undoubtedly cross his face as he asked such a pointless question.

'Connie, I…' he trailed off hopelessly, his legendary gift of the gab finally deserting him. He didn't know what to say to her; for every potential 'right' thing to say there was an equal likelihood that it would tip her over the edge. Standing in the shower with the burning water cascading over her she felt his desperation almost as acutely as she felt her own.

'I'm tired' she stated dully as she stepped from the shower, pulled a towel around her and froze. She didn't feel able to walk into the bedroom with a towel barely covering her body as she would have less than 24 hours ago. If she did that there was a risk that he would realise how filthy she really was and be disgusted with her. She couldn't bear that.

'Can you get me the stripped pyjamas?' she called, referring to an ancient pair of his pyjamas that she had taken to wearing on occasions where her own collection of skimpy silk camisoles and shorts weren't appropriate. Today was definitely a pyjama day.

Moments later when she emerged from the bathroom, the fluffy cotton of the pyjamas sticking to every inch of her raw flesh, she saw surprise register on his face at her modest and dishevelled appearance. It wasn't a state he had ever scene her in before and she could see that it unnerved him.

'What?' she snapped as she slid between the cool cotton sheets, her body tensing as he climbed in beside her and slipped an arm around her in what was meant to be a comforting gesture. To her it just felt suffocating.

'Nothing' he sighed heavily as she shut her eyes and was immediately besieged by images of what he had done to her. As she slipped into a sleep the names he had called her echoed abut her brain. Bitch. Whore. Control freak who has lost control.