Sex and Murder Magazine

By Erica Settino

The first time he hit me my world shattered. Literally: the force of his anger propelled me across the room into a full-length mirror; which crashed down upon me like the break of a wave. Suffocating under the shards, I held my breath until I could resurface. In my attempt to stand, I slipped on the ice made of glass; smashing my head on the tile, I blacked out. When I came to, he was sitting on the floor next to me with his legs folded beneath him: childlike. Rocking methodically back and forth, he stroked my arm and whispered my name. Blinking back tears, I pushed myself onto my elbows. He didn’t react until finally, I couldn’t hold it in any longer, and cried out in pain. Each breath I took felt like a knife to my ribs.

“Amy? Oh, Jesus Christ, Amy, I am so sorry.”

My head throbbed as I struggled to my feet. Slowly, without choice, I reached out my hand and he helped me up. His touch felt like acid on my skin; I recoiled when he approached me, drawing me into his chest, still muttering his apologies in my ear. Squeezing my eyes shut I felt moisture sliding down my face. I reached my hand up to my eye, gasping as I encountered a palm full of blood. My body had begun to shake: sitting on the couch I noticed my cat, wide-eyed and cowering in the corner behind the bookcase; the sole witness to the woman I had become.

He handed me a towel full of ice with a mouthful of regret. “Amy, I love you. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what happened, I will never do that again; I promise. I love you.”

“I know you do,” I offered timidly, “I just need a minute, please?”

Mercifully, he left me to clean up the mess in our house and our lives. Fighting back the bile that threatened eruption, I stood slowly. Finding my gaze in the fragments of glass: a distorted puzzle that no longer fit together; I cried out in horror at the sight of myself. Where had I gone?

Soft tissue bruises heal faster than broken bone; all except the heart. I should know. The last time he hit me, he was provoked; and I was better prepared. I watched from a gurney as he was handcuffed and escorted to a waiting car. This time his face matched my own. My eyes held his stare long enough to remember the man he had been; the man I loved.

“Amy?” my neighbor from across the street hesitantly approached me. “What happened? Are you alright?” she asked in disbelief.

“I asked him if he loved me,” I explained, “I just wanted him to tell me he loved me.” A slightly hysterical cry escaped my lips as a small smile emerged. “And he did; I got exactly what I asked for.”