Past Praying For

He was home.

My relaxed stance against the couch immediately stiffens, my back going as straight as a billboard. My top teeth dig into my bottom lip painfully; so painfully that the metallic taste of blood floods my tongue. I swallow, my throat as dry as cotton, as I shakily pull the sleeves down on my top to hide the bruises on my arms. He hates to look at them.

I stand up as I hear his shoes click across the hardwood floor. I prayed to God that hopefully today he had a good day at the office, but I knew he hadn't the moment he started cussing as he drops his briefcase on the ground. My eyes squeeze shut, bracing myself.

I hear him remove his jacket and hang it up on the hook.

"Brittany," I hear him mutter. "You better fucking have dinner ready."

I squeeze my eyes shut so hard that I start seeing shapes and dots dance in front of my closed eyes. "Of course," I murmur back as I hear him come into the living room. I could feel his heavy presence like a burden on my shoulders. "It's warming in the oven."

I could hear his teeth grind and I cringe. "Set it on the table for me then."

So. Today was one of those days.

It's one of those days where he would be angry with every little thing I did. A day where I would end up with an injury before bed no matter what. I try not to let my fear show on my face as I go toward the kitchen, opening the oven and pulling out the lasagna I had made. I cut him a piece and place it on a plate, my brain flooding with relief knowing he hadn't closed the oven door on my arm. God knows he's done it before.

I pour him a glass of wine, like usual, and place it on the table next to his lasagna. I'd already eaten before he got home, which is what I always do, so I take a seat next to him, waiting as he ate. No words were spoken.

He had yet to look at me, glaring at his food as he ate. Luckily, he didn't make a nasty comment about it, which made me relax a little, meaning he liked it.

I wanted to smile, but even that wouldn't cheer me up.

Finally, when he was done eating, he pushes his plate away and chugs the remainder of his wine. I wince knowing this would cloud his cruel mind further. Once the glass was set on the table did he eventually look up at me. I keep my face clean and blank, not trying to show the scared little girl I kept locked up in my mind.

When our eyes connect I immediately knew he wasn't happy with me.

"You didn't cover up your eye," he growls. I freeze, going over my morning in my head. I had woken up, showered, brushed my teeth, did my hair and make-up...

Shit. I forgot to put foundation over my left eye.

The one he had bruised last night.

"I..." I stammer out; another thing he absolutely hates. "I'm sorry. I was in such a rush because I had to make you breakfast before work. It - it must have slipped my mind."

"Fuck, Brittany!" he stands up, slamming his chair back into the table so hard the it knocked and fell backwards. "What if someone had come over? Your parents? My parents? They would have asked questions! Do you want me to get in trouble?" When I don't answer, he stomps over and grabs my hair, pulling it back so I'm forced to look up at him. I muffle the cry threatening to spill from my throat. "Do you?!"

"N-No," I manage out from my awkwardly bent neck.

He pulls my hair back farther, which made me cry before I could stop it. This only angered him further, bringing up a hand and cracking it across my cheek. At the same time he released his grip on my mane and the force of his slap sent me thrown to the floor. I land on my hip, a pop greeting my ears. I scream out.

"Dammit, Brittany," he spits, rounding my chair so he could kneel in front of me. "Why do you have to be so damn stupid?! I try so hard to help you and this is how you repay me!" He hisses before standing up and bringing a foot back to smack against my ribs.

An oof like sounds falls past my lips as I am rocked backwards, my back hitting the wall.

I felt like someone had split my spine in half as pain shot through my body like a bullet. I give another cry, one of agony, as he kicks me again.

"Stop being such an idiot!" he growls again. "I'm tired of cleaning up your messes."

He kneels down again, grabbing my face and looking me in the eyes. "You are my wife," he snaps, his saliva landing on my face. I wanted to wipe it off. "You are to respect me. Yet all I get from you is fucking shit." Then he slams my head against the wall, my vision going black and blood gushing up into my mouth. I choke and gag it out, breathing the metallic taste as I inhale.

"Steven, wait!" I try to get it out, but all it sounded like was a swirl as more blood is spit past my lips. I then hear footsteps walking away, leaving me on the floor.

How my marriage ended up so bad will always be beyond me.

And as I slowly lose consciousness, I couldn't help but think to myself that he was so past saving. There was no hope for him. And there was no hope for me. I couldn't get out. I was too far deep in and both of us would eventually lose.