Despite What They Say

She wakes up in the morning, body aching, limbs sore. There’s a lack of body heat next to her so she can only assume that her criminal lover has left for the day, off to do who knows what. She’s not allowed to ask what he does when he leaves, and that’s a rule. To ask where a lover’s gone is to ask for more pain, that’s what he always told her when she asked. He would follow up his answer with what it does suggest, which is pain for her and cruel pleasure for him.

He never hesitates. Not once, not even at the start of the year long relationship. He did what he pleased, when he pleased. No amount of begging for mercy could stop him from getting his sober, morbid fix. Not that she begged for mercy much anyway. She agreed to what he put after her because she knew that it meant that he would later kiss the pain away and give her what she needed to get by. He always made up for everything the next night, so it was every other night pleasure for each person.

She’s not the biggest fan of rough nights, and he knows that. She wants to satisfy her partner though, and if rough is what he wants then rough is what he’ll get. If he wants to slap her, kick her, bite her, gag her, piss and spit on her or whatever he decides to do to her then she’ll take it. He’s blessed with such an accepting partner, someone who takes his cruelty without a single cop call yet unlike his past lovers.

He’s not the biggest fan of love making, and she knows that. He wants to satisfy his partner though, and if soft is what she wants then soft is what she’ll get. If she wants to cuddle with him, kiss him, hug him, love and be with him or whatever she decides to ask of him then he’ll give it. She’s blessed with such an accepting partner, someone who puts up with her simple fantasies without mockery or argument.

Sheets ruffle as the girl climbs out of her now unoccupied bed slowly. She walks over to the mirror and stares at the pale girl reflected in front of her. Dark bruises contrast against her porcelain white skin. Splotches of purple, blue, black, green, yellow, and red sit on tender flesh. There are some pink marks slapped across her skin, slowly turning darker to join the rest. They still sting from the night before.

Sitting down on the floor, she inspects her injuries. There are nearly too many to count. Her knees remain the worse, scraped and cut up with dark surrounding bruises from being forced down on him all those times. She has one black eye, and another one that’s almost faded away. Cuts scatter across her once beautiful face from being scratched by sharp rings when taking a fist to the face. Many oddly shaped bruises, some even in the shape of a shoe sprinkle along her flat stomach. Handprints wrap around her frail arms, most prominent around her slit wrists and forearms.

She sighs and rubs her arms, flinching slight at the contact with damaged flesh. She picks herself up off of the floor and walks to the kitchen in search of breakfast. There’s no luck, though, as the fridge seems to be barren. She contemplates going to the store but then remembers- he likes skinny girls. She frowns momentarily at the thought of him not loving her no matter what, but quickly shrugs it away and leans against the marble counter.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway awakens her from her thoughts, and she perks up in delight at the thought of being able to see her love. He unlocks the door, shoving through and slamming it shut behind him. He throws his keys on the kitchen table and looks over to his smiling girlfriend. She pulls him over with her cheeky grin, attempting to reach up and softly kiss him. Instead though, he shoves her into the counter forcefully, laughing at her painful shriek.

She grasps her side and yells out, “But honey! It’s my night!” as she doubles over in pain. His expression softens as he realizes his mistake. He isn’t in the mood for a soft night, but anything to make her happy. He bends down and caresses her beaten face in his calloused hands. He wipes away her tears in attempt to stop her sobs. Their lips meet slowly, barely moving and with little pressure.

He lifts her shaking form onto the counter and softly rubs her hurt stomach, trying to make her happy once again. She flinches when he puts too much pressure on it and he quickly jumps away as if she might attack him. Her scared face melts away to show uncertain happiness with no more than a half grin and he takes this as an opportunity to kiss her once again.

It’s moments like these that she likes to remember, because it reminds her that behind the monstrosity that is her abusive relationship, there really is love. No one believes her when she claims he really loves her as much as she does him, they think she absolutely mental. She doesn’t care, though. She knows who he really is behind his tough facade and she knows that he loves her for everything, bruises and all.