Shock

His face is a storm cloud. No warning, no chance to prepare myself. Just anger.

I grasp for answers, gathering my scattered thoughts as I consider whether or not to bolt, to run, to finally hear my footsteps rain down upon the stairs as I escape.

I stand still.

His screams thunder through my skull. Threats of violence, threats to leave. No threat can be worse than the one I aim at myself: to survive this or die trying.

My field of vision is limited to his face an inch from mine, full of angry gnashing teeth and a flood of spittle as he yells.

I swallow, willing myself to hold back the tears. They drop without permission, run down my cheeks and splash on the battered hardwood floor.

I shake, clamping my hands over my ears as if that will protect me. All it does is funnel his screams into concentrated echoes, penetrating deeper into my soul.

And then he's done. Spent. He stomps away to slam out of the house with a final curse tossed at me, the parting blow.

I breathe, remove my hands from my ears and stretch my aching arms.

I walk to the bathroom and undress. Hot water needles my skin, the spray too sharp against my bruises. But pain means I am alive. The shower is a habit, an ingrained reflex, a ritual after every fight.

As if I can wash this off.