The blood
inches its way down slowly, slowly until it reaches your lips. You’ve
never tasted your own; it’s tart, cold, unfriendly. Your dumbfounded
expression creates your pause. You stand shoulder width apart, shoulders
back, head down letting your red body ink drip from your face. A stronger
masculinity has never been seen, more danger in one being has never been
contained and yet you have been struck; weakened by my small form with one
heavy swing. You smear the blood from your face with the back of your
hand and search the room, but I am gone.
I took
your pause as my getaway and started down the hardwood stairs. I freeze
at the first landing to listen for your approach. I drape myself over the
rail to catch my breath, but am quickly reminded of my pulsing intruder.
Five inches into my abdomen are the serrated edges of our wedding kitchen
cutlery, which laughs in mockery at where my smooth, tan flesh once lied.
In this moment I can’t help but think how smart I was for choosing mahogany; at
least these bloodstains won’t appear as apparent as if we had gone with the oak
floors.
Your
anger unleashes as I hear you scream. Heavy footprints are closing in and
I am in no hiding place. Across the dining room I stumble and into the
foyer. I reach for the keys but a hesitation tells me I won’t make it to
the car. Whose idea was this rural living crap? The safety of a
neighbors yard is a distant dream, but the flickering street lamps might give
me time to take cover. I sprint across the green grass holding my stomach
and gritting my teeth. I dive into the warm air of our wheat field.
For a
moment, I forget my pain and lay my back against the soft soil. The
spiders and rodents that once haunted me in this field are little to fear
tonight. The sky is cloudless and bright like the polka dots on my dress,
so I search the stars for Andromeda. She stares down at me with a
sympathetic gaze; both chained for so long, both itching for our
freedom—tonight we are soul sisters. I feel her on my side and my fear
begins to disapparate.
