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A Day Never Forgotten (standard:other, 1270 words)
Author: KittykatAdded: Jan 16 2004Views/Reads: 2080/1247Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
She loves him, will she leave him?
 



Her outlook on life had changed.  It only took an instant.  With
powerful thunderbolt-like moments something had awoken her from her 
perpetual unhappy life. 

She's standing in the entryway of her home.  The old 70's style
wallpaper of fruit arrangements in oranges, reds and greens, is peeling 
from the wall.  The plaster is crumbling in spots and lying on the 
floor  of one-inch tiles hand laid with great care by the house 
builders.  The old light fixture suspended from the ceiling isn't on 
but the light from the living room shines brightly next to the darkness 
of the night filled house. 

Her one-year-old son, in his footed pajamas of brown teddy bears playing
on light gray clouds, is held close to her body with his head on her 
shoulder looking away.  He is the reason why she puts up with the 
constant abuse.  He needs his father, right? 

She stands motionless in her hostess uniform, just returning home
moments before.  Her husband is having a hard time finding employment.  
He tries, when he finds the time.  No one seems interested in hiring 
him. 

Time stands still for her at this moment.  Thoughts are running through
her head.  "What should I do?" she wonders to herself.  He, the man she 
loves, has gone too far this time.  He stands before her in his torn 
blue jeans and hole filled t-shirt.  His hair doesn't appear to have 
been combed in days and he reeks of body odor.  He's yelling abusive 
words again but she doesn't hear them.  They've faded to a mumbled 
mess.  "He's never done this before, not while I held our son." 

His hand is at her throat.  She's pushed to where her back is against
the wall in the corner of the small room.  The stairs are to the left 
of her and the doorway to the living room is behind her husband to his 
right.  The front entrance to their home is directly behind him.  Her 
son doesn't move, not realizing what's happening.  He's almost asleep 
with the comfort of knowing he's safe in his mother's arms.  The 
yelling doesn't disturb him in the least anymore.  Even he has his 
moments when he screams and hits her. 

"Take your hands off me," she utters almost unheard, tears are in her
eyes.  She's trembling in fear.  "Not for the first time," she thinks, 
"nor the last.  How long will it last this time, when will he stop?"  
Time is dragging on for her. 

Her thoughts are on her son.  "He doesn't deserve this," she thinks.  "I
do.  I don't have the time to do the things he wants me to do because I 
work and take care of our baby." 

"This isn't how it's supposed  to be.  God didn't put me here for this,
to be his punching bag."  Her thoughts are scattered in every 
direction. 

"My son will be next," she thinks.  "He'll be like every other child and
start to say the word 'no' all the time, what if..."  Her trembles turn 
from fear to extreme anger as visions of what could be run through her 
mind. 

Her husband suddenly lets go and explodes in pain and anger.  She's
pulled away from her thoughts and back into this reality she tries so 
hard to shut out.  She discovers she has punched him square in the 
nose.  He's wiping blood from his face.  He looks at her in the eyes 
and says, "You'll be sorry for that."  He raises his fist with his 
elbow back.  She can see the veins in the back of his hand start to 
protrude.  His blood red fist is level with her face. 

She closes her eyes, turns her head to the back of her son's head and
thinks, "I'm dead.  All those times he's told me he was going to kill 
me has come.  Will he carry me to the top of the steps and throw me 
down like he's said before?  Telling the police and family that I 
fell?" 

She hears glass break.  She looks towards the front door.  The large
window no longer has part of the glass in it.  The window cling of a 
Winnie-the-Pooh winter scene is holding part of the glass in place.  
Her husband turns to the living room to check his hand.  She doesn't 


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