Bethany

              Bethany snuggled her bare knees into the back of the sofa, as she marvelled at the outside world.  A gale flurried between the trees.  Rain smashed against the window in front of her, thrown at great force by the high winds. 

The garden was abandoned.  Birds had absconded to wherever birds go in bad weather; cats and dogs had been called in by their owners and now sat curled up in front of well stoked fires. 

Her body swayed and swooned as she looked on, as if trying to communicate with the wind itself, swirling, snatching and scurrying, as it swept between the leaves and branches , taking with it a few trophies for its troubles.  She watched the droplets of rain that peppered the window, trickling down over the glass, upon merging with other drops and gaining weight and momentum.

She shivered, lost in the moment, before remembering the hissing, crackling fire behind her, and absent mindedly, almost imperceptibly, eased her shoulders upward and inward around her neck, as a warm, contented smile spread between her glowing cheeks. 

It wasn't long after 8 PM.  The gathering clouds served to make the evening sky darker than it should have been, on a late-Summer's night. 

A sharp clank stole her from the show.  She recognized it as a key being stabbed into the front door.  No rest for the wicked.  She jumped up off the sofa and across the living room, to the front hall of the house. 

The door swung open, as Darren lurched inside, his flailing arms almost knocking the phone from the wall. 

His clothes were wet from the rain, his short, dark hair damp and slick against his skull.  In his jacket pocket, a small bunch of battered flowers desperately clung to life, within a transparent plastic wrapper.  The ones in the garden had fared better against the violent forces of nature.

Bethany reached out to grab him under the arms.  A warm smile stretched across her face, as she spotted the flowers. 

She fumbled him toward the sofa.  The task was all the more difficult because he was six-foot three, with expansive shoulders.  A mixture of a few too many meals and a naturally stocky build made him far from a light-weight.  Bethany, although fit and agile, despite her own few extra pounds, was gasping for air, after the few short moments it took to get him across the room and seated. 

Darren smiled, his hands crawling to both pockets of his jacket, before one came back presenting what had once been a cheap, but cheerful, bunch of flowers.  “For you,” he slurred.

“Awww, thanks babe.  They're beautiful!”  Bethany's face radiated, her eyes open wide and sparkling.

He visibly struggled to hand them over, until she reached out and took them in her grip.  She padded into the kitchen to put the flowers in water. 

On return, she held a mug of strong, hot coffee in her dainty, well manicured hand.  She plopped herself down on the sofa next to Darren and offered him the mug. 

“No, I can't drink any more.”

“Come on babe, it'll do you good,” she spoke gently, “just take a few sips.”

Darren flung the mug to the other side of the room.  Some of the contents spilled on the way, scalding Bethany's bare leg.  She yelped and pulled away, as a familiar terror gripped and froze her being.

“I don't fucking want it,” he spat, ”Jesus, don't you ever fucking learn?”  His eyes slowly focused on her.

“I'm sorry,” she withered.

“Where the fuck are your clothes?”  His eyes widened, his mouth screwed up, like the reaction of someone who'd just found a hair in their soup, only because it caught in their teeth.  “Fucking whore!”

Her head hung low, she said nothing.

“Is this how you dress when I'm not here?”  His face tightened, corrupt and contorted.  “Who have you had here, while I fucking work to keep this house?”

She didn't answer.  Her eyes sank down to her recently, self-painted, cherry-red toenails. 

“Fucking answer me,” his voice demanded, as his hand clawed out to take a handful of the soft, thin material of her front-buttoned pyjama top, “or so help me...”

“No-one.  I swear.”  She sobbed. 

“Look at this,” buttons popped and landed on the sofa and floor, under the force of his grip, “you aren't even wearing a bra.  Fucking slut.”

Her arms attempted to push together, across her exposed chest, but were powerless against his grapple. 

“I bet you haven't put knickers on either.” 

His free hand swept over her belly and down under the waistband of her pastel-pink pyjama shorts.  Her face flushed as he pulled them outward, and glared inside. 

He leapt off the sofa, his balance now unaffected by his lack of sobriety, and snatched her into the air, his white-knuckled fist still full of the cloth of her top. 

“Please,” she tried, “I'm sorry...”  Her words quivered in her throat, mingled with swallowed tears.

“Shut the fuck up,” he chided, towering over her like an angry parent. 

“I was ready for bed... I thought we could have an early night.”  Her voice stuttered, weak.

His grip loosened, his facial expressions relaxed. 

She froze.  Her eyes looking up at him, pleading, pooling with tears.

He didn't speak.

A white-hot pain shot through the side of Bethany's face.  It wasn't until she saw his arm pull back for the follow-up, she realised he had slapped her.  She rose her free hand, half-heartedly, but it was like fending off a lion with a spoon.

She watched in slow motion, as his arm swatted again, this time the hand wound into a tight fist.

She fell to the floor, limp. 

As she regained consciousness, she looked dazed and confused. 

Her body ached like she'd been in a car accident.  Her face throbbed, her head pounded, her ribs felt shattered and her tummy seemed fit to explode. 

As her vision cleared, she reeled in horror, seeing Darren loom over her, still holding her upright in his clutch, his eyes cold and his teeth grinding behind tight, twitching jaws. 

His free arm moved.  The crimson-knuckled fist hung in the air, as his sleeve wiped at the gathering sweat on his forehead.  “I think it's time the whore got cleaned.  I'm not going to bed with no dirty whore.”

He propelled her towards the kitchen door.  Powerless against the strength of her foe, she could only stumble, as her frame was forced inside. 

Once at the counter, he turned the cold water tap to full flow.  His bulk and weight pressed her against the cold metal.  His hips and groin pushed hard against her back.  She stopped struggling, as he forced her head and shoulders over the sink. 

Her body winced, as handfuls of water were smashed against her face, mixing with her tears to assault the open cuts. 

His breathing was rapid as it snorted through his nose, like that of a bull determined to finally gore the menace holding the red rag.  His hands scrubbed at her flesh like those of a rape victim trying to scrub away the memories of the night before.  They moved lower, over her delicate and slender neck, to the soft, full, rise of her breasts. 

She could only hope it would be quick tonight. 

His hands pawed at her flesh, and to her shame, she felt the nipples stiffen to the cold water and roughhousing.  They stood out like pink rose-buds, swayed this way and that by his manipulation.

His breathing rasped, as he heaved her form up onto the counter. 

Her body shivered, shrank and hinted at a foetal position, as her feet dangled into the sink.  She looked like a child who had grazed a knee and whose mother knew the remedy.  She wished her mother was here now, with a bottle of TCP and a hug. 

His powerful hands ripped open the fabric of her shorts, wetting it in the process, snatching at the washing up liquid on the window sill. 

She watched, silently, as the thick, sticky substance squirted over her belly and down between her thighs.  Her body twitched at the chill of the liquid and the intrusion. 

A quiet sigh escaped her lips, as his thick, rough fingers scurried across her belly, down over her pubis and between her shaven folds.  She tried to clamp her thighs together.  Her features inferred a slight guilt.

“You'll be clean soon.  I'm too fucking forgiving, but I love you.  What can I do?” 

The words hurt deeper than the scars and bruises.  She never looked at other men.  She loved him.  Her crying reduced to a dejected sobbing. 

Bethany's top seeped, hanging off her shoulders, leaving her torso exposed and glistening.  Her shorts lay discarded on the puddled floor. 

Darren looked like an artist slaving over his most important work to date, making sure every shade and shadow was perfect.  Stopping momentarily, every now and then,  to look at his handiwork. 

As his digits scoured over, and inside, the folds of her womanhood, she saw that look.  She was the hair in the soup again. 

“How many fucking men have you been with?”   

She didn't get a chance to reply, or even react, as his teeth pierced the bruised flesh of her cheek.  Her blood curdling scream didn't deter him.  If anything, he was still trying to sink his teeth deeper. 

Her screams rose to that of a banshee.  Something primal kicked in.  The need to survive.  The will to survive.  She reached behind her, taking the kettle from its hotplate, and before Darren could react, she flipped the lid and emptied the scalding contents over his head, face and shoulders. 

He shrieked, as he fell to the floor, clutching at his face. 

“YOU ARE FUCKING DEAD!”  The words flurried through his fingers, hissing, like a dangerous snake warning its prey. 

She knew she'd gone too far.  She knew he meant it. 

Sliding herself off the counter, she carefully stepped down onto the slippery floor, pausing to keep her footing.  She reached across to beside the bread bin, taking the largest knife from the block.  With a lightning-like strike, her arms rose and fell through the air, as a roar thundered from between her lips. 

The blade plundered his shoulder. 

He screamed unintelligible words.  His arms lifted, but with his eyes still clamped shut, his movements appeared erratic as his arms searched blindly for his attacker.  “Stop!”  There was obvious fear in his voice. 

She rose on her toes, like a cat on its hind legs before battle.  Her face contorted, her pupils bloated to give her eyes a cold, black stare.  She clutched the knife tight between her hands, her fingers interlocked.  The knuckles were white and glistening like a row of ravenous teeth.  She lunged again. 

The sharp steel ricocheted from his raised forearm, into the rapid rise and fall of  his chest. 

Every muscle in Bethany's body flexed, as she continued to thrust.  A twisted, primeval wailing surged from her lungs, as Darren's screams abated. 

Her husband's blood flowed through his feeble fingers, as they fought to stem the flow.  His bulk, his height, his strength, his cruelty and his brutality all seemed powerless, as his body relaxed and  fell limp. 

The body twitched, jolted and jerked for a good five minutes after the life had left, as Bethany continued to drive the angry, blood-drenched blade into what was once the love of her life.  Her knuckles now dripping red, the ravenous teeth almost satiated.

THE END.