• What have I done wrong this time?
    You push me against the wall with compelling force. I've only just gotten home from the market, but I've taken too long for your liking. Your hand is at my throat, cutting cutting cutting deep into my breathing. I don't dare push you away - you are right and I am wrong. That's how it has always been. It was subtle at first, but, over the months, you grew more brazen with your aggression. Seven months in and this is how you "teach" me. That's what you call it. You say I need to learn my lesson; I never do anything right.
    Your body is driving mine into the cold wall of "our" living room, telling me that I was wrong once again and that I should brace myself for incoming blows.
    Sure enough, your words start up like the engine of a '68 Camaro: Why have I taken so long? What have I been doing? Surely, it shouldn't take anyone that long to pick up some groceries. It's such a simple task that I obviously can't handle. Stupid wench, I am. You wanted me back here in thirty minutes and it has been forty five. Was I seeing someone else? I was flirting with the cashier, wasn't I? Damn me; I can't keep myself under control ever, can I? I'm a dirty ******** slut. I don't deserve to be with you or anyone, for that matter.
    The declarations come to a bold halt; I'm left gasping for air as you loosen your deathly grip. One observing from afar might think that you were done, but I've grown to know better by now. That was the easy part - here come the real blows.
    Your knuckles crunch under the pressure as you slam them into my cheek bone. I feel something shift inside of me - surely that's not a good thing. Sucking in my cheeks and biting down hard help to keep me from crying. Crying will only make it worse. Besides, the words cut deeper than the hits.
    Another hit lands on my chin, uppercutting my head and sending me reeling. My body collides with the hardwood floor, and my head greets it with a bang. Another shift inside me - have I cracked my skull? No, I'd have fainted or something if that happened. Right?
    You're on top of me now, moving my body under yours. Your fingers lock into my hair and you're moving my head upwards with the force of a bulldozer. Before I know it, you've slammed my skull back into the hard wood, once, twice, thrice.
    And you're done.
    You've gotten out all of your frustrations from the day and you're leaving towards the bathroom. You call out to me over your shoulder: I should know why you did that. I'd better have dinner done in forty five minutes, or I'll be sleeping outside with the dogs tonight. Get on it right away, b***h.
    Your words ring in my throbbing head, and I comply without a second thought. You've done what's best for me. Surely I've learned my lesson on timing now, right?
    I move into the kitchen and start my routine.
    Another day in the life. This is what I deserve.