Lorem Ipsum
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This is a story I wrote for a competition on dA, about abuse. It's called 'Red'. Please be warned, the theme of this story isn't particularly pleasant. (yes, it's meant to be under 500 words)
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Red
As he winged towards me in that drunken rage of his that I knew only too well, I cowered in the corner. The scars from last week’s incident were dotted all over my face, an incident which he had passed off as merely having an accident while doing the housework. This was a lie; it was all a lie. I hadn’t wanted to marry a drunkard who battered me most nights, let alone the man whose true colours were revealed when he had found the bottom of a bottle.
A tear fell down my cheek as he began to yell in my face, flecks of spit being sprayed all over me from his mouth. Apparently, I wasn’t good enough for him; he’d made sure that I knew that. His words were just a blur now: I wasn’t paying attention to what his mouth was doing, more what his hands were doing. I was only faintly aware of him pulling me brusquely up and one of his hands pushing me against the wall, while the other tore at the silken material that made up my skirt. I knew where this was going, and sure enough, my fears were confirmed when he unbuckled his belt, and pushed his jeans and underwear down to the floor, revealing what would lead to the next hour, maybe two, of untold humiliation.
I was only told recently of the full horror of the events that unfolded that night, and one of the most embarrassing parts for me, and indeed for any human being that would have been in my situation, was the fact that I had subconsciously wet myself. It was true; I had wondered what that warm substance was trickling down the inside of my legs at the time, but I had always presumed that it was sweat; apprehension at what was going to come next.
You see, my husband, he was cruel. He didn’t take me to the bedroom and ritually abuse me there, and nor did he attack me there, on the living room floor, where at least it was warm, and there were plenty of things to look at to avert my attention from the inexorable fate. No. My husband – my abuser - took me into the kitchen, and raped me on the cold, white tiles that made up the floor. What felt like an age passed, with him degrading me gradually and painfully. And then I was saved, saved by the dinner that we had eaten that night. It’s strange how the little things help, really, isn’t it?
So caught up in his lust, my husband didn’t notice the fact that he’d dropped a dinner plate and set of cutlery to the floor. So caught up in his fantasy, he didn’t notice me pick up the steel knife that lay there; an instrument of innocent power. But what he did notice was when I stood, and plunged that knife through his heart; hot, salty tears still streaming down my face.
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Red
As he winged towards me in that drunken rage of his that I knew only too well, I cowered in the corner. The scars from last week’s incident were dotted all over my face, an incident which he had passed off as merely having an accident while doing the housework. This was a lie; it was all a lie. I hadn’t wanted to marry a drunkard who battered me most nights, let alone the man whose true colours were revealed when he had found the bottom of a bottle.
A tear fell down my cheek as he began to yell in my face, flecks of spit being sprayed all over me from his mouth. Apparently, I wasn’t good enough for him; he’d made sure that I knew that. His words were just a blur now: I wasn’t paying attention to what his mouth was doing, more what his hands were doing. I was only faintly aware of him pulling me brusquely up and one of his hands pushing me against the wall, while the other tore at the silken material that made up my skirt. I knew where this was going, and sure enough, my fears were confirmed when he unbuckled his belt, and pushed his jeans and underwear down to the floor, revealing what would lead to the next hour, maybe two, of untold humiliation.
I was only told recently of the full horror of the events that unfolded that night, and one of the most embarrassing parts for me, and indeed for any human being that would have been in my situation, was the fact that I had subconsciously wet myself. It was true; I had wondered what that warm substance was trickling down the inside of my legs at the time, but I had always presumed that it was sweat; apprehension at what was going to come next.
You see, my husband, he was cruel. He didn’t take me to the bedroom and ritually abuse me there, and nor did he attack me there, on the living room floor, where at least it was warm, and there were plenty of things to look at to avert my attention from the inexorable fate. No. My husband – my abuser - took me into the kitchen, and raped me on the cold, white tiles that made up the floor. What felt like an age passed, with him degrading me gradually and painfully. And then I was saved, saved by the dinner that we had eaten that night. It’s strange how the little things help, really, isn’t it?
So caught up in his lust, my husband didn’t notice the fact that he’d dropped a dinner plate and set of cutlery to the floor. So caught up in his fantasy, he didn’t notice me pick up the steel knife that lay there; an instrument of innocent power. But what he did notice was when I stood, and plunged that knife through his heart; hot, salty tears still streaming down my face.
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