Heat stifling the room
Clothes dirtied and torn on the floor
Blood on the sheets
She can feel the soft material of the bed under her. It rubs against her body as she stares at the ceiling. Rage curls through her. It coils tightly like a snake around her and she feels it squeeze. Sweat dripped onto her, stinging her good eye and the jagged knife marks on her body.
She hated.
Hated the smell that permeated the room.
Hated the look of ecstasy on his face.
The knife lay bloodied and discarded on the nightstand. Her eye watched it move back and forth. She wondered how it would look buried in his eye.
When he was done, he left her on the bed like a broken doll.
"A pleasure as always, darling"
He touches her leg and her skin crawls.
That night she has the girls draw the hottest bath she can stand. She imagines the heat scorching off the feel of his touch. She slides beneath the water.
He always comes at high noon.
And each time he leaves a new mark on her. A brand like she was live stock. She wonders how he treats the other women in his life. If he saves his hatred for them. Because they are lesser. Because they do not fit in society. She knows that somewhere a woman sleeps soundly in her bed dreaming of a man who does not exist.
She pities her.
"My wife is having a baby."
What does that have to do with me, she wants to say. Instead she stays silent watching him pace the length of the room. It was her room but she refuses to call it that. It has not been her room for a long time.
"She expects me to be there to raise the thing. I have no want for a child."
He turns to her and she doesn't like the look in his eye. The look that meant bruises and cuts. Torn clothing and blood.
The knife is hot against her skin and she feels it press into her cheek.
"Oh, so pretty. Just like my other dolls. You're stronger than them though. They always-"
He cuts a jagged river deep into her skin. Tears bead in her eyes from the pain. Rage strangles her.
"-break."
The high noon sun curls through the window.
Heat stifling the room.
Blood on the floor boards.
She watches from her place on the bed, arms wrapped tightly curled legs. Blood weeps from the scar on her face. Sweat beads on the nape of her neck, hair plastered to her forehead, jagged knife marks on her body. She watches the blood seep into the varnished wood, forming patterns in the grain. She watches until the sun has passed its zenith. She stands- knife still clutched in her stained hand. She steps over his body, torn skirt trailing a bloody path behind her.
She smiles.