A Suburban Dream

Greg slapped the bitch heartily across the face, pleased with the solid connection it made, aroused by the anger and hurt he saw in those baby blues.

"You listen here, cunt," he snarled, lips wrenched back in an ugly grimace."You do what I say, when I say it."

Jess nodded, head bent with shame, eyes averted to the wood floor."Yes, Greg," she answered, careful that her voice remained even and inflectionless. if she wavered or began to cry, another blow would certainly follow the first.

"Now get me a beer," he ordered, leaning deep into the folds of his shitty armchair, a Maverick in one hand, remote in the other.

"Yes, Greg," the woman repeated.

Jess crossed the living room to the kitchen, the left side of her face the color of raw watermelon. A small bruise had begun to form on her cheek, swelling a bit, joining the many others in various shades of yellow and green and black.

A mirror hanging above the sink revealed the empty, unhealthy complexion of her once-vibrant reflection. Her hair, once smooth, thick and scented of strawberries, now looked drab and tangled. Her eyes, the color of deep, clean water were now devoid of spirit. Her skin was pallid, her hips jutting with weight loss.

The strong, vivacious woman that had once been was no longer. Only a shell remained, an empty bag of bones that washed laundry, cooked dinners and restocked often on beer and Doritoes.

A suburban dream.

.:............

Jess looked hard at the perspiring bottle in her hand. At the balding back of Gregs head. Bottle. Head. Bottle. Head.

SMASH.

The brown glass shattered at the back of his skull, exploding in a sudden spray of foam, shards and blood. Greg made a heavy, wet noise in the back of his throat before toppling sideways, unconscious and bleeding freely from his scalp. The remote clattered to the ground and his maverick began to burn a hole in the seat of his jeans.

The woman stared, eyes popping with fear, clenching the remnant of glass so tightly that it cracked in two and fell to the floor.

The acrid smell of burning fabric was what broke the spell; quickly she put out the cigarette and set the waste can next to her on the floor. After the broken bottle had been thrown away she grabbed a towel and began to soak up the puddles of blood and beer.

It was obvious from the shallow rise and fall of his chest, that Greg was not dead. Unconscious, but quite alive. Jess sat entranced for a moment, watching a trickle of scarlet swell over his wound and patter to the wood. Wiped it obsessively with a rag and waited for the next one.

A knock came from the front hallway and kicked her in the heart. Jess crossed the room, avoiding the boards prone to squeaking underfoot. Peeked from behind the hole in the door and had to clasp a hand to her lips to keep from crying out.

It was the police, two of them, hands poised over their holsters like mock cowboys. They looked impatient, even angry. Obviously a neighbor had heard the noise and got to thinking that the woman next door was being beaten again.

Again they pounded, this time identifying themselves.

"NYPD, open up!" The cop drawled. BANG BANG BANG, "This is the police, you need to open your door!"

The noise roused Gregory to consciousness; it took several bleary-eyed seconds for a look of understanding to form, several more to shake away the aching in his skull and climb unsteadily to his feet.

The man looked down at his wife, huddled on the ground like a dog."You Bitch," he hissed venomously."You stupid, crazy little Bitch."

Fat tears rolled down her face as she witnessed his epic expression of cold-blooded retaliation. Hungry to strike her, she thought. But the betrayal in his manic eyes revealed this would be kindly treatment in comparison to what he would really do.

Tottering unevenly, he removed a knife from the lining of his jeans and bent down to position it under her thin, pretty neck."How 'bout I teach you a lesson? Slice you open from ear to ear and let your body ROT where I leave you."

When the police busted down the door, alerted to the disturbance inside, they shot him in the back of the head with a single POP; It was necessary in order to save the woman at his feet.

Just another suburban dream.