A Thousand Splendid Suns

Mariam remembered the first time she had seen his eyes, under the
wedding veil, in the mirror, with Jalil looking on, how their gazes had slid
across the glass and met, his indifferent, hers docile, conceding, almost
apologetic.
Apologetic.
Mariam saw now in those same eyes what a fool she had been.
Had she been a deceitful wife? she asked herself. A complacent wife? A
dishonorable woman? Discreditable? Vulgar? What harmful thing had she
willfully done to this man to warrant his malice, his continual assaults,
the relish with which he tormented her? Had she not looked after him
when he was ill? Fed him, and his friends, cleaned up after him dutifully?
Had she not given this man her youth?
Had she ever justly deserved his meanness?
The belt made a thump when Rasheed dropped it to the ground and
came for her. Some jobs, that thump said, were meant to be done with
bare hands.
But just as he was bearing down on her, Mariam saw Laila behind him
pick something up from the ground. She watched Laila's hand rise
overhead, hold, then come swooping down against the side of his face.
Glass shattered. The jagged remains of the drinking glass rained down to
the ground. There was blood on Laila's hands, blood flowing from the
open gash on Rasheed's cheek, blood down his neck, on his shirt. He
turned around, all snarling teeth and blazing eyes.
They crashed to the ground, Rasheed and Laila, thrashing about. He
ended up on top, his hands already wrapped around Laila's neck.