As he finishes, the hold on my neck loosens and I gulp in breath. I want to refuse it. If I don’t breathe, I die. It’s a reflex though and I can’t stop myself. He crushes me underneath him and his vile stench is even more prevalent over the scent of blood. I remain quiet, waiting for him to get up and forget about me—as he always does. Only, this time I sadly underestimate him.
“Look at you, Melinda.” He says as if disgusted. I can hear the sound of his zipper. This time he grabs the back of my leg and pulls me from the couch I use my hands to try and stop myself from being slammed around but one hand is completely useless, and I end up trying to hold it tight to my chest wrapped against the other one to stop it from hurting more. He brings me to the wall that has three large mirrors hanging on them, and pushes my face against the glass. My vision is blurry, my eyes are swollen from the kicks he gave me and being ground into the hard wood of the couch. I make out my form through the mirror. The reflection makes me sick. Not because of the way I look, more for the weakness I see. I hate that word and how often it relates to me… Weak.
“Look at you! You think you can hide things from me, Melinda? Will you never learn? Do you think you could paint yourself up and people won’t see how ugly you are? You’re lucky I agreed to your father’s request and kept you from being on the streets. The least you could do is know your place and be grateful—instead of being a sneaky, conniving, cold bitch. Your cunt is so fucking dry it’s no wonder I have to fuck other women. You’d freeze a man’s dick off. Then again, maybe you just need more practice. You want to be a whore?” He asks, and his face goes close to my ear and his voice drops down. “I’ll give you exactly what you want, dear wife…DONALD!” He screams and it’s in that moment I know, if this happens, I won’t survive. I won’t even retain a piece of me. He’s been slowly killing me since I married him, but this…this will destroy me.
Donald comes in like the ever faithful dog he is. I can see him through the mirror.
“Melinda wants to be a whore Donald, so I’ve decided we will teach her. You may fuck her face while I continue to teach my wife how a woman accepts her man.”
“Yes, sir.” He says and the eagerness in his voice awakens what fight I have left.
I can’t do this. I can’t. I know I will never be able to stop them, but I have to try. I have to. Donald comes around to the side of me. Michael, uses my hair to pull me onto my knees. He bends down and whispers into my ear.
“Open for him and suck his cock all the way in. Show us what a whore does, Melinda—since you wish to be one so badly.”
He pushes my face towards Donald’s hard member and I refuse to open my mouth. Donald yanks hard on my hair and I yell out and he pushes my mouth down on him. It’s vile. I promise myself that I will never taste a man’s cock again. Never have them in my mouth, and never feel powerless around them again. With the last ounce of rebellion I have, I pull away, releasing him, then I look Donald in the eye and bite. I bite so hard on the head of his cock, I know that it’s his blood filling my mouth now, not my own. I don’t let up. Michael is pulling at my head and my shoulders, but I don’t let go. I bite. I bite and I hold on with every ounce of anger I have inside of me.
Donald is screaming. That just makes me clench my teeth together even firmer. I know there will be hell to pay. I don’t care anymore. I just don’t care. That’s the last thought I have before I see from my peripheral vision a large bottle of liquor slam into the side of my head. I don’t want to stop biting, but the world goes dark.
*
I don’t know how long I’ve been out. It could have been hours or even days. I am in my room. I’m lying on the bed, and I’m not wearing anything. There’s a stale smell of smoke in the room. For a minute, I’m afraid that he has set my bed on fire, but there is no heat. I can barely see. My face is even more swollen and I feel…heavy and drugged. They’ve continued beating me, even while I was unconscious. My sides are sore, I figure I have some cracked ribs. It’s a feeling I can recognize, because it’s happened one too many times. I try to sit up, but I can’t.
Michael enjoys hurting me, but it has never been this bad…it has never been like this. I know if I don’t get away soon, he will kill me. I drag myself with my good hand up the bed, pulling on the sheets beneath me. I reach the edge and look down and there’s a waste basket with the burnt remnants of my box. My things are gone… on top of them is the medallion. It’s unrecognizable now and is charred from the fire. I’ve been out awhile, because the metal is no longer hot. I stare at the medallion. I stare at the charred, unrecognizable medal of Saint Alexander. The patron saint of bachelors, victims of betrayal and torture. If that is not irony, I don’t know what is. I grasp it in my hand and pledge to get away. I don’t know how long it will take, but I will get away from Michael Kavanagh. It’s the last thought I have before I go under again and lose myself in the darkness.
Melinda