The smell of lilies wisps across the valley as she looks
upon the crimson sun that sets on the horizon. What a beautiful, peaceful day
she silently thinks to herself. She gathers her skirt around her, so as not to
trip on the uneven ground, one last look at the beautiful sky above her and the
immensity of the valley around her and she is on her way home. She is careful not
spill the basket of freshly picked berries and flowers that she has selected
for him, the man she married and loves.
For him, she tries; she tries so hard, wanting to please him, to make him happy.
Everything he wants, she does, she doesn't ask questions, when she does it makes him irate. The anger, oh God the anger, and the craziness that comes from the anger, she does not want this, tries with everything in her to avoid it, but it is impossible. If only she could be the wife he wants, the wife he desires, and needs, the wife he once loved.
For him, she tries; she tries so hard, wanting to please him, to make him happy.
Everything he wants, she does, she doesn't ask questions, when she does it makes him irate. The anger, oh God the anger, and the craziness that comes from the anger, she does not want this, tries with everything in her to avoid it, but it is impossible. If only she could be the wife he wants, the wife he desires, and needs, the wife he once loved.
She cannot think about this right now, although this plagues
her fragmented mind.
Walking briskly, she feels the sharp pain and bruising from the beating last night. She is getting better at hiding it, though she is running out of excuses for her distended body. Silently she prays a blessing that he will not allow her out often; hiding her away from friends, family, and the outside world. She finds her peace and solitude from the field where she thoughtfully picks her flowers and succulent berries. They are so lovely and delicious. She sits quietly watching bunnies hop past her, laughing, wishing she could journey with them, away, so far away from here. She listens to the birds chirp their song, do they know her pain? No, but she dreams they sing for her. The virtue of her mind is that of a child, he has forced her to block reality, at least for a few hours of the day.
Walking briskly, she feels the sharp pain and bruising from the beating last night. She is getting better at hiding it, though she is running out of excuses for her distended body. Silently she prays a blessing that he will not allow her out often; hiding her away from friends, family, and the outside world. She finds her peace and solitude from the field where she thoughtfully picks her flowers and succulent berries. They are so lovely and delicious. She sits quietly watching bunnies hop past her, laughing, wishing she could journey with them, away, so far away from here. She listens to the birds chirp their song, do they know her pain? No, but she dreams they sing for her. The virtue of her mind is that of a child, he has forced her to block reality, at least for a few hours of the day.
The late afternoon sun embraces her face, her neck, and her
back, bringing warmth to her heart; she tries to justify this sentiment with just
a few more minutes of freedom, before returning to her home. One last time, she
looks back to the stunning scene she is leaving behind and strains to hear the
beautiful melodies of the birds.
It wasn’t always bad, once he was a loving, caring tender person; kissing and caressing her, instead of beating and raping her. That was a long time ago, when they first met. Happiness, laughter and love occupied their lives. Talk of children entertained their conversations, holiday’s, birthdays and parties where added to their calendars. What was then seemed like a lifetime ago, for whom he has become, he is no longer. Today all she knew was agony, anger and fear. Yet she still daydreams of the day he will once again be the man she fell in love with. Knowing in her deepest of hearts, each day she wakes and she prays for the day he realizes he loves and needs her, but hoping that she will see the beauty of her field, and hear her birds sing one more day.
It wasn’t always bad, once he was a loving, caring tender person; kissing and caressing her, instead of beating and raping her. That was a long time ago, when they first met. Happiness, laughter and love occupied their lives. Talk of children entertained their conversations, holiday’s, birthdays and parties where added to their calendars. What was then seemed like a lifetime ago, for whom he has become, he is no longer. Today all she knew was agony, anger and fear. Yet she still daydreams of the day he will once again be the man she fell in love with. Knowing in her deepest of hearts, each day she wakes and she prays for the day he realizes he loves and needs her, but hoping that she will see the beauty of her field, and hear her birds sing one more day.
As she walks through the rose arch and up the stone path that leads to their home; you would never know the pain that invades the walls by the sheer beauty of the outside. A mix of annuals, perennials, verbena, foxglove, begonia, yarrow, and lavender line the walkway, bee’s fly from one flower to the next, a fountain to the side flows pleasantly, crafting serenity where birds rest to take a drink. Fresh green vegetables fill the garden, freshly cut grass, and a white fence to complete the picture.
As she walks through the front door a sigh of relief washes over her as she realizes he is not home yet, believing she still has time to prepare his dinner. She glances at the clock, how foolish she is for spending so much time playing in the meadow. Fear rises in her immediately she can feel the anxiety tighten in the chest; she cannot remember what it is he wanted, what did they have for supper last night? Chicken or steak? How stupid she is! Potatoes or vegetables. And desert, ice cream, or brownies? Oh God she can feel the beating before it starts, her breathing is becoming fast and deep. Pot-roast, yes, steamed vegetables. Why can she never remember these things, the simple things to make her husband happy? To stop the beatings?
She has to plan carefully, perfectly, when she does not plan, he tells her she is no good; she is stupid, he beats her for her obliviousness. Her head is fuzzy; she must go back to the feeling of the meadow, the freedom, and the tranquility. She hears the soft chirps of the birds singing, the striking aroma of the lilies, the warm sun, she remembers it so vividly. She must clear her head before he walks in.
The car, his car she hears it coming up the driveway, looking at the clock, she knows it is too late. Her daydreaming, her foolishness once again, she has failed.
His anger, she knows before he walks in the door what awaits her.
He has been drinking; she smells the bourbon on his breath “Where is my dinner bitch”? When he realizes there is nothing on the stove, a backhand smacks her hard, she has no time to react, her head hits the corner of the table, lying on floor, and she feels the blood. A kick to her stomach, she cannot breathe.
Between breathless sobs, she cries “I tried, I tried for you,
and I was out picking flowers and berries for you.” Through his drunken stupor
he does not hear her. He clutches the basket of carefully arranged berries and
flowers and beats her with them, over and over, the petals flying everywhere.
The flowers she so caringly picked destroyed. As he is beating her with the
basket, he smashes the red and blue berries in her face smearing them with the
blood already covering her.
Choking on the berries he is screaming “eat them bitch”,
forcing them down her throat. “You selfish Cunt, thinking only of yourself, eat
the fucking berries”, he continues to smoother her with the fruit she picked
for him.
She screams that she
loves him, tears streaming down her face; blood is pouring over her eyes
blurring her vision. Still she tries to reason with him, continually she tells
him she loves him, she would do anything for him. He zones out her cries, the
rage has consumed his fists and legs.
As he beats her, screaming “crybaby”, worthless piece of shit”, he beats her until she is unconscious.
Her eyes open slightly as she lies on the ground watching him smoke his cigarette, drink his bourbon, drifting in and out of consciousness. She knows this is the end, he has succeeded. Never again will she see her meadow, smell lilies, and hear the song of the birds.
As he beats her, screaming “crybaby”, worthless piece of shit”, he beats her until she is unconscious.
Her eyes open slightly as she lies on the ground watching him smoke his cigarette, drink his bourbon, drifting in and out of consciousness. She knows this is the end, he has succeeded. Never again will she see her meadow, smell lilies, and hear the song of the birds.
He stands, stumbling slightly, still in her unconsciousness
she smells the stench of his cigarette smoke and bourbon. Standing above he is telling
her to get up; she has no strength. She is falling, drifting. He jerks her by
the hair trying to make her stand. She can hear his hateful words ringing in
her head. She understands now that she
is none of these things, as she believed in the twelve years since he began to
beat her. Finally he drops her; she once again feels the continuous blows to
her stomach, her head. He yells at her “Get up you selfish Bitch.” “Get up!” “You
think you’re gonna get out of cooking me dinner?” As the pool of blood forms around
her, the pain slowly leaves her body. The final blow breaks her neck.
Gazing down at her, his wife, the wife that cleaned every day, picked fresh flowers to put in the house, washed and folded his clothes, planted a garden, tried to make up for the fact that she was unable to give him a child. The wife he loved that pleaded for her life just one hour ago.
Gazing down at her, his wife, the wife that cleaned every day, picked fresh flowers to put in the house, washed and folded his clothes, planted a garden, tried to make up for the fact that she was unable to give him a child. The wife he loved that pleaded for her life just one hour ago.
In his den he polishes off the bottle of bourbon, liquid courage, unlocks his gun case and retrieves his shot gun. He shoots her one last time in the head, she jerks, and she is gone. He does not recognize her, the years of beating her have taken her beauty, broken her soul. The blood, the shot to the head, this is not his wife anymore.
Once again he sits at the table looking at her body, smoking
his last cigarette, drinking his glass of bourbon he left there.
He thinks to himself it was not always this bad, I did love
her once. He watches her lifeless body as he ponders this; he cannot take his
eyes off of her, he believes he had no other choice; the choice he made tonight
is too much to bear, he wonders if his pain is as profound as the pain he
inflicted on her.
He carries her body to the backyard, where he has dug her grave. He goes back to the kitchen and picks up the flowers that she has picked for him, he cleans her gently and tosses the petals in around her, he screams. He screams for the pain he has caused her, for the beatings he forced her to endure, He takes one last look at her, and puts the gun to his mouth falling in beside her.
Once a dream, in the mist of reality she runs through the fields of flowers she had once picked for the man who murdered her. She stops to smell the most wonderful flower of all the lilies; she feels the breeze running through her hair, the bunny’s journey with her and the birds sing for her. The sun is warm on her neck and she smiles as she gathers her bouquet in a beautifully woven basket. Falling back on the soft white clouds she looks down from heaven. A single tear escapes her eye, this time a tear of joy.
He carries her body to the backyard, where he has dug her grave. He goes back to the kitchen and picks up the flowers that she has picked for him, he cleans her gently and tosses the petals in around her, he screams. He screams for the pain he has caused her, for the beatings he forced her to endure, He takes one last look at her, and puts the gun to his mouth falling in beside her.
Once a dream, in the mist of reality she runs through the fields of flowers she had once picked for the man who murdered her. She stops to smell the most wonderful flower of all the lilies; she feels the breeze running through her hair, the bunny’s journey with her and the birds sing for her. The sun is warm on her neck and she smiles as she gathers her bouquet in a beautifully woven basket. Falling back on the soft white clouds she looks down from heaven. A single tear escapes her eye, this time a tear of joy.
© 2012 The Random Writings Of Me..Kates
