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the pain shooting through her legs and up her spine. The world
was spinning, and when she tried to get up, the movement only
made it worse.
“You’re so damn selfish all the time!” he said, towering over her.
She said nothing. Couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t breathe. She bit
her lip to keep from screaming and wondered if she would pee
blood tomorrow. The pain was a razor, slashing at her nerves, but
she wouldn’t cry because that only made him angrier.
He continued to stand over her, then let out a disgusted sigh. He
reached for his empty glass and grabbed the bottle of vodka on
the way out of the kitchen.
It took her almost a minute to summon the strength to get up.
When she started cutting again, her hands were shaking. The
kitchen was cold and the pain was intense in her back, pulsing
with every heartbeat. The week before, he’d hit her so hard in the
stomach that she’d spent the rest of the night vomiting. She’d
fallen to the floor and he’d grabbed her by the wrist to pull her up.
The bruise on her wrist was shaped like fingers. Branches of hell.
Tears were on her cheeks and she had to keep shifting her weight
to keep the pain at bay as she finished dicing the tomato. She
diced the cucumber as well. Small pieces. Lettuce, too, diced and
chopped. The way he wanted it. She wiped the tears away with
the back of her hand and moved slowly toward the refrigerator.
She pulled out a packet of blue cheese before finding the croutons
in the cupboard.
In the living room, he’d turned the volume up again.
The oven was ready and she put the baking sheet in and set the
timer. When the heat hit her face, she realized her skin was still
stinging, but she doubted that he’d left a mark there. He knew
exactly how hard to strike and she wondered where he’d learned
that, whether it was something that all men knew, whether there