The story follows the hardship of an abused house wife, Eve.
|Chapter 1: Another day, another little piece of me
He raises his hand and in an instant her mascara is dragged down her cheeks in streams of moisture. His rage is overwhelming and whilst his yelling continues, his roaring slowly fades. She sees his mouth moving, the spit flickering as he over emphasizes his words, however the sound has faded. Her head begins to spin and whilst she drops to her knees for support, the silence still remains. Another swift motion and he sends her sprawled out on the floor. Everything turns dark, she knows what has happened as this is not the first time. She accepts her escape from reality but regrets her return.
Her life is her prison and each night this animal, this sorry excuse for a man that calls himself her husband, becomes her executioner and sends her to her nirvana that others call unconsciousness.
Morning arrives and as she awakens to the pungent smell of beer she can tell that the abuse had continued throughout the night, her bruises now playing witness to this. He had raped her again, but who could she tell, one slip of the tongue and these actions would be repeated the following night. She is alone now and whilst she tends to her wounds, the brandy bottle hidden in the flour tin once again becomes her savior. Noon arrives and the alcohol returns her to her nirvana. She is peaceful now, one of the few times she can actually admit this. She dreams, not of a better life, not of what could have been but of what once was. Her childhood had been insignificant but each little memory, no-matter how stupid it was, would be enough to get her through the day in hopes that life might return to how it once was.
She awakens now, much to her disliking, the sun inching ever closer to the horizon. He'll be home soon. She wonders how long until the beatings start, a chuckle leaves her lips as she laughs to herself and gives him two hours. Limping to the kitchen like a wounded animal seeking refuge, she prepares his dinner, eats quickly and then goes to bed.
His fist penetrates her stomach, dragging her from her sleep. Coughing and spluttering her lungs try to grasp at the air that had escaped them only moments ago. Her eyes meet his and as her mind fails to make sense of the words escaping his mouth, her eyes plead for a reason to this rude return to reality. She can smell the alcohol on his breathe and assumes that the liquor cabinet has been smashed open again. His fly drops and he pins her down. Tears crawl down her face as she waits for him to finish. A grunt emerges from the beast as he rolls over satisfied with himself. She retreats to the sanctity of the bathroom.
The room is in ruins, the porcelain remnants of a bath tub lay in a corner and the shards of what was once a mirror still hangs above the sink. The floor is littered with pieces of glass and porcelain, and many of the tiles on the wall are cracked from where a baseball bat had hit them. She does not clean this room as this is her silent reminder to him of what his drinking can lead to. She pulls herself into the shower and proceeds to wash his stench off of her.
Morning shows its face once more and she is the first to arise. The beast lies silently to her side, his calm like slumber giving the false impression of harmlessness. She grabs her pillow and makes for his face, his death will mean her happiness even if it means prison. No prison, no matter how tough, could compare with the horrors that go on within her house. Inches before his face and doubt hits, she pulls away. She is not like him she cannot play judge and jury on someone else's life. She tries again but is found with the same result. Swearing she leaves him alone and departs from the room. "The beast will live another day," she mutters.
She leaves the house after walking past the broken liquor cabinet, it's once full bottles now empty and scattered about the floor. She heads for the post but finds none, instead her eyes wonder down the road and her heart sinks. Every house on the lane is neat, tidy and all alike. The grass mowed, the hedges trimmed and the flowers in bloom. Her eyes return to her house of which many of the roof tiles were missing, the grass had not been mowed in years and the flower beds were now dominated by weeds. Others junk lay hidden in the grass and his rusted blue paneled ute lay distilled in the garage to the right of the house. The scene giving the impression that at one tug of a string and the entire house would collapse and would finally bring complete destruction to the yard. "If only," she mutters walking back to the house, pretending to tug a string as she walked past a pillar on the porch.