Fragments of Delores

Prologue

Delores

The first slap is always the most painful.

It brings tears to my eyes. Not from shock, or the horror of the act itself—though I feel both of those things; I always do. The tears are just an automatic reaction, reluctantly set into motion by my own tear ducts. It's appropriate really, though I detest that they do it.

The second slap—to the other cheek this time—hardly hurts at all. I feel almost nothing as the rough palm of his hand makes contact with my cheek. I am too in contempt of the first slap for the second one to be painful. His actions—as usual—are repugnant and vile.

But it is what he does.

It is how we are.

I find the roughness of his hands bemusing. For a man like him, doing the type of job he does, his calloused hands are unusual.

When I don't react to either slap, he steps closer, invading my personal space and stealing the air from my lungs. Or at least that's how it seems. But that's probably just the fear talking.

However I don't back down. I don't step back from him. I don't retort with the things that I want to say; the uncouth words that roll uselessly around in my head with nothing and nowhere to land, because I will not ever say them to him: I am too proud and head-strong to beg for help, or to plead with him to stop.

His top lip curls up in disdain at my nonchalance of him and his brooding hazel eyes bore into mine. Then his too-large hand reaches out and grips my throat and he slams my body against the wall behind me. I was only a step away from it; I must have stepped backwards without even realising, and my head snaps back and bangs against the hard wall. So hard I almost see stars. I grunt in pain, and I see the glint of joy in his eyes at this; at my pain. It is always the same. I have fed the beast now.

I feel fear, but I refuse to show it to him, knowing that this is what he wants. Like a succubus he feeds off of me.

I grit my teeth and steady my feet. My hands turning into tiny, feeble fists at my sides. Because I won't back down this time.

'I won't,' I tell myself. 'Not this time.'

I already know that I'm lying. But we do what we need to survive.

He leans in and smiles. The heady stench of Scotch is on his breath. And then he kisses me, hard. There is nothing romantic or loving about his gesture. The only things it shows is his will to control me.

The pressure of his lips on mine are more painful than the slaps to my cheeks. My bottom lip is split and it opens wider from his ferocious kiss. My blood mingles into both of our mouths, mixing with our saliva and the metallic taste of it spurs him on.

His hand paws at one of my breasts and the other releases my neck to reach down for the hem of my skirt. I open up to him, allowing him the space for his kiss to go deeper, his tongue moving across mine, and our teeth clashing.

In my head I am saying no.

In my head I am refusing him. Refusing this and all of his bullshit.

But it is all in my head, because in reality it is easier to accept this than to not.

Because I am his wife and this is my duty.

And more, this is exactly what I deserve.