She had endured for months. In a tender, few weeks it would be their first wedding anniversary. She had nearly forgotten until opening the pocket diary she took shopping with her. The date was circled, something she had done the morning of the new year in the hope that it would all work out.
That belief was the only thing that got her through the wedding ceremony.
She hadn't slept at all last night. It was a Friday; Charles had come home drunk after missing dinner. By the time he stumbled through the door it was cold and of course it was her fault. She tried desperately to outrun him, use his inebriation against him, but her foot caught the leg of the dining table as she made her attempt to evade him. She was never quick enough at returning back to her feet.
Plates smashed as he swiped dishes from a clothed table, cutlery falling deafeningly around her. His fingers found her ankle as he dragged her toward him before her back was against the wall and his fingers around her throat.
She never cried.
His spittle found her face with every angry word— every insult he hurled at her. She did her best not to struggle, but his fingers grew tighter and tighter which caused her to wince. Soon enough she was struggling to breathe.
Is this how she died?
He released her on the brink, allowing her to fall onto her hands and knees as she heaved, desperate for air in her lungs. The respite was brief. Soon enough he had his fingers in her hair, forcing her to follow him clumsily into the living room.
She couldn't remember what happened once the door closed, but from the bruises staining pale skin, she had gathered it was nothing pleasant.
The fingerprints around her throat were her most urgent concern. She settled on wearing her hair down accompanied by a coat with a generous collar. No-one would notice if she kept herself to herself. Charles had left for work and he expected Esme to shop for groceries. A fruitless endeavour in her opinion, especially when he most often hated what she cooked.
The decision was sudden and unrailing. Instead of turning left as she normally would, Esme instead found herself walking a route she hadn't dared tread for months.
As she walked, the first few raindrops began to fall. It was gentle at first, almost relieving against skin that ached beneath clothing, but soon enough the rain pelted down as hard as her husband's punches and Esme found herself beginning to soak through. As roads transformed into dust tracks, the hem of her skirt picked up mud with shoes sinking into it.
The smell of the farm was a different type of pungency to the city. Manure was familiar to her, as was the sight of pigs and chickens.
The tree that came into few as she rounded the curve of the road caused a smile to pull at her lips. She was glad it was still there. With its presence, she was also reminded of the blonde-haired doctor so long ago.
She stood for what felt like hours at the door or the farm house. With every stuttering breath, she tried to find her bravery. An equally as shaky hand (curled lightly into a fist) came up to rap knuckles against the door, but she was interrupted by her name said behind her.
Esme startled. She turned, expecting Charles but was instead met by her mother with a cluster of eggs collected freshly from the hens.
Esme's chest collapsed in partial belief, but anxiety remained chained around her ankle. Rain dripped pitifully from the rim of her hat as she offered a strained smile. Of course, her mother ushered her in with comments about Esme catching her death.
They had barely closed the door before Esme revealed she had come to talk to both her mother and father about something which drew her father from the doorway leading into the living room.
They invited her to sit, but nerves refused them.
With nothing more than a deep inhale, Esme revealed the treatment she suffered at the hands of Charles. She peeled away material to show bruising, her voice trembling but not breaking as she detailed his true nature before asking for their help.
The silence between them was as violent as Charles himself.
Esme's mother spoke first; Esme had to understand that Charles had a very taxing and stressful job. Perhaps she could do better not to frustrate him after a hard day's work.
Then Esme's father joined in, supporting his wife by suggesting Esme try to please him physically. The last thing a husband wanted when getting home was a wife who criticised them. He'd want to let off steam somewhere, she should be available for him to do that.
The figures in front of her suddenly became unrecognisable.
In the midst of their appeal of Charles' character, Esme's fingers found the door handle.
The rain had not subsided, but she did not care to stay a moment longer.
She had always wondered when she would lose her parents. This unexpected grief of losing them despite still living nearly doubled her over. Even with the aching in her chest, Esme retraced her steps until the key found the lock of her own house. Tears fell as heavily as the rain outside as she shed nature-stained clothes.
She would not wash them; Charles would be too suspicious. Instead, she watched them burn in a fire that burned not only fabric, but any lingering connection to her parents.
Eventually, Esme found her diary again. She circled this date before glancing her reflection in the mirror. Lingering tears were wiped away, a smile stretching cheeks despite her agony. A dwindling fire was extinguished, the evidence of her disobedience gone and absolving her of her crimes.
The grocer commented on how late she was, how she usually appeared like clockwork. Esme dismissed his observation with a laugh, fruit and vegetables finding her basket as she explained she simply lost track of time waiting for the weather to pass. He laughed in return as bills were exchanged and Esme accepted her change.
Once again, she was alone, the sickening recognition of déjà vu lodging itself firmly in her throat as she cleaned and peeled potatoes. She wondered if she would be able to enjoy any of this tonight or if it would be her usual meal of iron with the threat of teeth.
Just a few more weeks. Maybe she would learn to be a good wife, yet.