WARNING – ADULTS ONLY.
The first time he entered her, she was fifteen and a virgin. Afterwards he made her wash the stained bedsheet. Used half a bottle of white vinegar to clean the blood.
The second time she pummelled his hairy chest with her fists. He blacked her eyes and broke an arm. Fell off a ladder, he told the hospital. A doctor sucked the end of his pencil. Made a few notes.
She kept quiet.
Silent each time he took her until she became pregnant and bloated. Then he was injured in a car accident and confined to a wheel-chair. Both legs paralysed. Otherwise, still functional.
She aborted the foetus. Left it dripping on his chest, until he woke and screamed.
Swore he’d make her pay when his body recovered.
Miscarriage, she told the hospital. A woman doctor scraped her clean, made a few notes and prescribed paracetamol.
A month later, at night, while she dragged his legs into bed, he sat up, wrapped his arms around her and hauled her on top. Ripped off her nightdress. Groped her breasts. Laughed at her distress.
It began again.
Pain and suffering in silence.
Contraceptives, she told the hospital. A nurse read her notes, gave her an injection.
When he was in the wheelchair she had leverage. Could pin him down for a minute or so. One Saturday, she visited the hospital while he drank whisky. A woman consultant sucked on her pencil, gave her stronger drugs, and when she got home he was slurring his words.
She ground the tablets into his half-empty glass, and helped him drink it.
All of it. Plus a refill. Thirty minutes later his eyes were closing, and she straddled him in the wheelchair.
Holding a sharpened pencil. From the hospital.
She told him he was dead. He began to struggle. Like a baby. Pushed his hairy arms into her chest, tried to wriggle free, but she rode him like a cowgirl, legs locked around his wheelchair.
He swore at her, spat at her until she clawed his face with one hand and thrust the pencil up his nostril with the other.
All the way.
Right up to the 2H mark.
He hurt me, she told the hospital. She opened her hand. Unwrapped the bandage. A woman psychoanalyst stared at the blood-soaked pencil.
And made a few notes…