This short story is inspired by Carrie Underwood's 'I Know You Won't'
I Know You Won't.
The sound of flesh against flesh. Bone grinding against bone.
I know what you're thinking. You think I'm talking about sex. Those intimate moments shared between two people who love each other. The pleasant, soft moaning which gets louder and harder. The desperation for a climax.
This, though, is completely different. I don't want a climax - the situation is horrible enough as it is.
These sounds are not pleasant, however intimate they may be. These sounds are the sounds of him hitting me again.
It didn't matter how many times he hit me, I didn't mind - I don't mind. Still, now, after all this time; I still don't care that he has a fondness for violence. I love him and that is all that matters. I know you might not understand, you might not have been in this situation before; but that doesn't matter either. It is how I chose to live - it is my burden to bear; it is not a heavy burden, I must admit, but it is always there. It's not the hitting that gets to me, though - it's the cheating.
He had just come down the stairs after getting ready - we were going to one of his friends parties - I was sitting patiently on the piano stool, ready to leave at any moment. The piano stool was uncomfortable - even with it's cushion - I don't know why I chose to sit there. I heard his footsteps and the tinkling of keys before I saw him; his hands were on his hips with the keys dangling from his hand. I watched his eyes pass over me, I thought at first that he was admiring me; perhaps about to compliment me on looking beautiful. I think I hoped it, actually. That was always something he forgot to do; tell me that he loved me and how beautiful I was - I overlooked it though - I could always see how much he adored me. There was no need for him to express it. I knew and that was all that mattered.
But that was when it started again. His face screwed up in anger. In disgust and he just began to hit me, while hissing through his gritted teeth. I felt his fist collide with the side of my face, I could feel the bruise forming; a lump of deep purple. I felt the pain and I yelped as I fell to the ground - only in surprise - the pain rarely affected me nowadays. I could hear every word that passed through the tiny gap in his teeth:
"You disgust me! What are you wearing? You think I want to go to a party with my wife who is dressed like some sort of hussy? Cover yourself up woman!"
When he was done I pushed myself from the ground watching him in horror - I wanted to say something to him, but my jaw locked, possibly in fear? I wanted so much to bite my tongue to ensure my own safety; but at that moment it was impossible.
"I am not a hussy! I am wearing nothing different to what all the women at this party will be wearing! I try to look nice for you and this is how you repay me?" I pointed to my eye. "I am not going to this party with you - you can go by yourself" I wanted to storm from the room - my eyes were brimming with tears - I was disappointed, not hurt.
I felt it then, the iron clasp of his hand wrapped around my slender wrist; he just looked at me, his eyes pleading with me; toying with my emotions once again - this is how it always went.
"Please, Carrie - it's me. You know me?" I felt my face being lifted by his firm hand as I was forced to look into those eyes. "I'm sorry, Carrie, I don't know what came over me... please." His other hand came up and rested on my cheeks his fingers wiping away a tear that had formed with the bruise. "I won't ever do it again. I'll get some help... I'm sorry." I nodded, quickly accepting his apology. I knew he didn't mean to do it. It's just something that happens with some men; I had read about a few cases before - it's a medical problem and can be cured. I knew that; I just wasn't bothered about when he would get the cure.
His hands suddenly dropped from my face leaving me standing there cold, and isolated. I wanted to leave the room already; wash our hands of this memory. His back was to me now, his head drooped. Light rain pattered against the windows as his hand groped for the doorknob. I watched him turn slightly his head still drooped; unable to look me in the eye.
"I won't be back tonight." I nodded, I knew he wouldn't be back; it was how it always went. "I'll stay in a motel... I'll call you tonight." I nodded again, but this was a different nod; it was less noticeable - but that was only because I knew he wouldn't. He always says that he will call me afterwards. When he's gone, but he doesn't. It's one of those things that you just forget to remember. "I love you."
As I heard these words my mouth opened. I wanted to say something; but when you're as shocked as I was - you'll understand why I couldn't. He had never once, in all the time we were married, told me that he loved me. I had assumed it was the way he was and had never tried to coax it out of him. He left the house into the cold rain - the kind of rain that you don't feel until it has soaked you to the bone.
I didn't know what to do after that, usually I would have a bath; have a nice hot meal; watch some TV. But something was different today, I had something to look forward to when he came home. When he said he loved me I knew he meant it. He wouldn't have said it if he didn't mean it. So I contented myself with applying make-up to the afflicted areas; always keeping in mind that tomorrow I would have that bath, perhaps with him.
I didn't know what to do after that, so I opened a book. It was alright for a while; sitting in the dark with a simple reading lamp and a book - but I felt lonely. I looked over at the phone; waiting for the call that I knew would never come. The call I didn't know why I was expecting. I knew he wouldn't have the chance to call me - he would be much to busy with one of his many floozies. I put the book down. It was annoying me, just sitting there in my hands when I could concentrate on nothing.
I went upstairs and ran a bath... but I didn't get in it; I just waited for the water to go cold. Waited for the call. The call that would never come.
I began to doze off; my head drooping heavily on my shoulder; my eyelids too heavy to keep open; the book, once again in my hand; about to drop onto the hardwood floor.
That was when it came. The call. It took me a while to wake up; the shrill ringing panging against my eardrums.
I was barely awake, and not only that I didn't recall the phone ever ringing. The sound was unfamiliar to me and I had no idea what was going on - only for a while - it took me some time to register what it was, but I answered it quickly and waited for his voice to travel from his receiver to mine.
"Carrie. I'm coming home. Now. I love you and I am sorry for everything I have ever done to hurt you, I just want to make things right. Please say I can come home." I smiled, in spite of everything, there was no way I would ever be able to say no to this man.
"I never said you had to leave. That was a decision made by you and your conscience alone. I love you, too. I would love it if you came home."
I could feel the warmth from him through the phone. I could feel the smile on his face. I wanted to let him know how much I loved him; but before I could utter a single word, I heard the soft giggles of a woman on the end of the phone. I felt the tears plunge down my face dripping onto my chest. The receiver slip through my fingers.
I felt the blood pulse through my veins, quicker than anything I could possibly describe. I felt humiliated and more alone than I thought I ever could. I felt it then. The anger he must have felt all this time. I knew what I was going to do. That bastard had hurt me for the last time; not physical hurt, the hurt one feels when their heart has been broken. I was bleeding to death and there was no-one to rescue me.
I did it then. Without realising too much of it, I did it. I ripped the drapes from their rails, I piled rugs and cushions on top of each other, I snipped the violin strings; just because it made me feel better. I piled all these things on top of one another right there in the living room. The revelation came to me then, I now knew what I was doing.
In the garage was a bottle of petroleum... it was more obvious to me then. He wanted to come home in the morning, I knew it. I knew that the only way to hurt him as much he hurt me was to take what he needed most away from him. I poured the gasoline over all the fabrics that I had piled up in the living room. The matches were there on the table, next to the cigarettes. All I had to do was touch them and everything would be over.
But did I want it over? Would destroying his home... my home really make the pain go away. Would it make me feel better?
I decided it didn't matter; anything would be better than what I am feeling now. I reached for the matches. A few seconds later and the house was engulfed in flames.
The heat was strong enough to melt human skin; I could feel it, even from the safe distance that I stood as I watched my husbands house burn to the ground.
I began to laugh hysterically. All our worldly possessions. Everything that reminded me of my husband was being destroyed right this minute.
I was free.
Thanks for reading!
