Fires of the heart

The assault

The floorboards were cold against Maryanne's cheek as she huddled in the corner, tears staining the plush carpet. Her body ached from the brutal slaps, but the emotional pain cut far deeper. The mask had finally slipped, revealing the ugliness that lurked beneath Dr. Richard's facade.
A creak on the floorboards sent shivers down her spine. She looked up to see Dr. Richard looming over her, his eyes gleaming with a predatory glint.
"Get up," he commanded, his voice rough.
Maryanne scrambled to her feet, her legs wobbly like a newborn fawn's. He grabbed her roughly by the arm, his grip leaving angry red marks on her skin.
"We're not done here," he growled, dragging her towards the bed.
Terror flooded Maryanne's veins. She tried to pull away, to plead with him, but the words wouldn't come. He was a towering storm, and she was a lone, fragile sapling, powerless to resist his forceful advances.
Tears streamed down her face, blurring her vision. His touch, once familiar, now felt like a violation. She felt trapped, a prisoner in her own home, in her own marriage.
As he loomed over her, his hot breath tickling her ear, a primal scream ripped through her throat. It wasn't a scream of defiance, but a desperate cry for help, a plea heard only by the uncaring walls.
Finally, exhausted by his own rage, Dr. Richard slumped beside her on the bed, his heavy breathing filling the silence. Maryanne lay there, her body stiff, her mind a whirlwind of emotions.
The sound of his rhythmic snores filled the room, a grotesque lullaby. He was asleep, the battle won, or so he believed.
But Maryanne was wide awake. The events of the night had shattered the last vestiges of hope for reconciliation. This wasn't a marriage, it was a warzone, and she was the unwilling soldier.
Relief washed over her as the thought of escape solidified. Stealing a glance at the slumbering form beside her, she knew she had to tread carefully.
With a silent prayer, she tiptoed out of the room and into Justin's room. Tears welled up again as she looked at her son, his face peaceful in sleep. He deserved better, a life free from fear and violence.
Picking up her phone, she dialed Cybill's number, her hands trembling slightly.
"Cybill," she whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion, "I need your help. Find me a good lawyer. This... this has to end."
As Cybill's concerned voice filled the receiver, Maryanne knew her journey to freedom had just begun. The road ahead might be long and arduous, but for the first time in a long time, a flicker of hope ignited within her.