Her Soul to Break

The moment the last dinner guests left, I knew what would be waiting for me. I had seen the vicious monster lurking behind my husbands’ eyes when I had merely laughed at a particularly funny joke one of the local councilmen had made. The sound had slipped out before I could stop myself. I should not have had that second gin and tonic. Typically, I knew better than to be anything but a trophy wife. Only to be seen, not heard. As expected, the moment the last car could be heard pulling away from our valet in the driveway, he advanced on me. “Are you trying to destroy my career, you money hungry whore? What the fuck do you think you are doing speaking out of turn in front of my friends” he rages furiously, forcibly pulling my head back violently by my high ponytail so that he can look at me. My hand itches to go to his, to try and loosen his brutal grip on my hair but I don’t move a muscle, though; it would only make things worse if I fought back. I learnt that the hard way. Tears sting my eyes as he tightens his cruel grip, waiting impatiently for an explanation. “I merely laughed”, I reply in a low-pitched voice. Apparently, that was not the answer he was looking for, and before I know it, his free hand raises swiftly, and he strikes me so hard that I think I am going to pass out. My husband, Christopher, has repeatedly used his height advantage over me. I am only petite at 5′5 to his towering 6′2, and he made sure I remembered who wore the pants in this household. My ears were ringing from how hard he had hit me; tears started to fall earnestly even though I tried my hardest to be strong and not show emotion. I had endured worse than this. “You are so pathetic, Blair”, he sneers as he hauls me roughly through the house by my hair. Even though it feels like my hair is being pulled viciously out of my scalp, I don’t bother trying to struggle. It would be a useless endeavour that would result in me being beaten severely. Kicking open our bedroom door, he drags me inside before releasing me with a shove onto the floor. “Get on the bed, Blair”, he growls menacingly. I hesitate momentarily, which earns me another harsh slap across the face. Forcing myself to my knees, I scramble swiftly to the bed and sit on it anxiously awaiting his next command. “How I managed to end up married to such a pathetic bitch is beyond me”, Christopher fumes as he advances menacingly on me. He grabs me roughly and flips me onto my stomach, pulling my hips back until my feet are on the floor. I freeze when I hear him unbuckling his belt, followed by the terrible sound of his zipper being lowered. I close my eyes tightly and take a silent breath. I am still fully dressed in my designer cocktail dress and stilettos, but Christopher simply tears a hole in my stockings and moves my underwear aside before thrusting into me dry, causing me to bite as hard as I can on my fist to stop crying out. He grips my bruised hips harshly. The sound of his skin slapping against mine causes bile to rise at the back of my throat. Thankfully it doesn’t take long for him to finish. I wince when he withdraws due to the rawness he has left in his wake.

A sound from the far corner of the room startles me. Searching the darkness, I chillingly spot the red glow of a cigarette. I start to panic; I was sure everybody had already left. The corner table desk light turns on, illuminating the cruel face of my husband’s best friend, Douglas. “Beautiful”, he murmurs darkly, drawing on his cigarette and blowing a cloud of smoke in my direction as he palms himself aggressively through his trousers. “The sluts all yours, Doug”, he laughs harshly, zipping his pants back up. The slamming of the door tells me he has left me at the mercy of his friend. I frantically scramble backwards on the bed until I hit the headboard, a shrill squeak leaving me when I realise that escape is futile. “There is nowhere to run, Blair. Nowhere to hide. I would always find you. You know that,” he spits contemptuously, suddenly lurching towards me. Within seconds he has his pudgy hands around my throat and squeezes tightly until I black out from lack of oxygen. I come to with searing pain ripping violently through me. I lay face down on the bed with pillows propping my hips up with Doug brutally raping me anally. I can feel something warm and sticky trickling between my thighs and wonder how long I have been passed out or if he has been so brutal that I am bleeding. “I am glad you are awake to enjoy this, Blair”, he whispers tauntingly between pants as he thrusts in and out of me. Gripping my ponytail tightly, he pumps into me several more times before he grunts and collapses on top of me. He finally releases my hair and then pulls out of me roughly, making me wince at the pain in my rectum. No doubt I would require stitches again. “Clean yourself up slut”, he barks as he climbs off the bed. “I don’t know what Christopher ever saw in you apart from an easy lay”, he continues nastily before the bedroom door slams once more, and I am left alone bleeding, scarred and broken.

Christopher hadn’t always been like this. Or maybe he was, and I just convinced myself that he was my soulmate because he was rich and powerful, an attractive older man who swept me off my feet and promised me the world. I had rose coloured glasses on in the beginning. I had just graduated from high school when I met him. I had a scholarship to attend a good local University, but he convinced me that I would never want for anything if I was by his side and that he would support me in building a career in business beside him. What a fool I had been, I think bitterly. As soon as I had walked down the aisle, he showed his true colours, and by then, it was too late. I was an orphan. My parents were killed in an accident when I was a young child, with no one in my corner. Christopher alienated me and made sure that I didn’t have an opportunity to make friends. He convinced me that I was worthless and that no one would want me because I was nothing more than a pretty face. I snorted at that thought. Most abusive partners made sure to only mark where it could be easily covered with clothing but not my dear husband. He beat me wherever he saw fit, knowing that I would conceal it the best I could with makeup, or he would laugh and tell his friends how clumsy I was. He beat me down so much that over time I believed every word he said and put up with his emotional and physical abuse over the last eight years, playing the role of doting, docile wife to the well-loved and respected Mayor of Sinclair.

By the next morning, I breathe easy when I roll over and find that Christophers’ side of the bed is empty. Letting out a ragged breath, I wrap a silk robe around me and head down to the kitchen. “Good morning Mrs Mencini. What would you like for breakfast this morning” our chef Lydia asks chirpily from where she is putting groceries away. When I don’t immediately reply, she turns around to face me. A slight gasp escapes her mouth when she sees my face. She swiftly schools her features and then plasters a smile on her face, but I notice it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. The staff who oversaw our mansion’s day-to-day running were used to seeing me battered and bruised but never said a word about it nor offered me any assistance when they saw me being brutally abused. I guess money truly did buy silence. “Just a cup of coffee, please, Lydia. I am not in the mood for food right now,” I reply quietly, choosing to stand rather than attempt to sit on my sore behind. “No worries, Mrs Mencini. I will make it right away,” she replies hastily, busing herself making it. Because I am a bird, albeit a tortured one, trapped in a gilded cage, I spend most of the day in the library rereading my favourite Jane Austen book, Emma.

The day passes in a blur, lost in the pages, when I am suddenly pulled from my bubble of serenity by the front door slamming and Christopher bellowing furiously for me. “Where the fuck are you, Blair. Get your ass down here. NOW” he screams horribly in a violent rage, making icy dread run down my spine. I reluctantly abandon my book, race out of the library as quickly as possible, and make my way down the stairs to the foyer, where my husband stands with a thunderous look. “Did you forget something today Blair?” he aggressively questions in a deadly quiet voice, his fists clenching and unclenching beside him. I wrack my brain. Had I missed something important today? “You were supposed to join my associates and me for lunch. You made me look like a fool,” he screams, spittle flying from his mouth. “I’m so”, I begin, wringing my hands in front of me, anxiously anticipating the terrible beating that will follow for such insubordination. “Don’t you dare fucking finish that sentence Blair. Don’t you dare”. Before I know it, his fist is flying toward my face, and I land with a hard thud on the marble floor, my head instantly pounding and my eyes swelling closed. At least I see his foot coming towards me, and I have just enough time to curl myself into a ball as he kicks and kicks me until his breathing becomes laboured, and he runs out of steam and storms off, leaving me coughing blood onto the tiles and trying desperately to regain my breath. Minutes later, he returns and kicks me once more. “I have a late business meeting. Don’t wait up for me. In fact, I won’t be home until tomorrow night”, he spits contemptuously as he storms out of the house.

I wince as the hot water runs over my shaking body. I shower quickly and then throw on a pair of skinny jeans, a white silk blouse, leather ankle boots, pull my damp hair into a high ponytail, not bothering to put any makeup on to cover the deep purple bruises starting to bloom on my face, I don’t intend on stopping anywhere. I can’t be in this house a moment longer. I need to get out of here and think, to breathe. Swiping the car keys from the crystal bowl in the foyer, I make my way to the garage and climb into my sleek, black 2022 BMW M3. An hour later, I have left the city lights behind me and find myself driving aimlessly through unknown streets of the outer suburbs. I start to panic when I realise I have no idea where I am, so I do an illegal u-turn at the next sign that points me back towards the city, but unfortunately, I don’t see the jagged and broken edges of the curb until it is too late and an ear-splitting popping sound startles me. The steering becomes heavy, and I am forced to pull off the street as far as possible. Grabbing my mobile phone, I groan when I see that it has no reception. “Fuck my life”, I mutter as I climb out of the car to assess the damage. I can see that I have somehow managed to destroy the tyre, the car now sitting on bare metal with the rubber exploded around it. Sighing, I glance around myself and see a dimly lit bar not far down the road. Picking up my purse, I lock the car and gingerly walk towards it, panic almost crippling me at the thought of being around so many people by myself. There was nothing else to do. I needed to find a phone and call a tow truck; I just prayed that I could pay them cash to keep this ordeal quiet. I could only imagine what my darling husband would do to me if he found out. The media were vultures, and would love nothing more than to splash my accident on the front cover.

The closer I get to the bar, the louder the music becomes, a heavy bass pumping through the night air, causing a shiver to run down my spine. I can do this; I chant like a mantra over and over. There are a few motorbikes out the front, along with several people laughing and drinking. All eyes snap to me as I approach. Shit, maybe I should just keep walking until I get reception. Stepping further into the light spilling from the bar, the stares go from appreciative to horror. I wince when I release I didn’t put any makeup on before I decided to go for a drive. Murphy’s law that I would break down, I thought sourly. The flip side was it would make it harder for anyone to recognise me. Ignoring the stares and catcalls, I push open the front door and am instantly assaulted by the smell of stale beer, body odour and sex. I wrinkle up my nose and head straight for the bar. Forcing my way through the crowds of people dancing, making out, and some straight-up fucking, I wave my hand frantically, trying to capture the barman’s attention. After what feels like an eternity, he leans toward me so he can hear me over the music and asks me what I would like. “Do you have a phone I could use, please” I call out? The barman just looks at me at gestures for me to speak up, but before I get a chance to try again, I am handed a mobile phone. “Here, you can use mine”, comes a gravelly voice close to my ear. Startled, I spin around and meet a hard wall of muscle. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, darl. I just overheard you asking for a phone and thought I might be of assistance”. He says sheepishly, offering me the phone once more. Looking up, I can’t help but drink in the man before me. He is tall, maybe six feet tall, with a mop of curly blonde hair, green eyes, pierced ears and a lip ring. The thing that caught my eye, though, was the leather motorcycle club jacket he was wearing. Taking my hands off his firm chest, I take a step back and step around him. This had been a bad idea. A very bad idea. Making my way through the crowded dance floor, I am suddenly stopped by a large, calloused hand grabbing mine. I try to jerk my hand away, but the hand closes more firmly around mine, and then I am being tugged out of the bar by the man who had offered me his phone. He doesn’t stop until we are outside and away from the noise, where he swiftly releases my hand and puts his hand up in a surrender gesture. “Sorry for grabbing you, sweetheart. It was too loud in there, and I didn’t want you running before I could help,” he said sheepishly, dimples appearing on his cheeks as he smiles at me. I frown at him, wondering why he was being so nice to me. “Here. You said you needed a phone”, he continues, offering me his phone once more. When I don’t take it, he chuckles deeply. “I don’t bite, darling”, he tries again, his smile slipping when I continue to stare at him like an idiot. “Are you ok, sweetheart?” he questions. I cower reflexively when he raises a hand, and he quickly drops it, concern crossing his face at my reaction. My throat suddenly closes up with emotion at the thought of someone caring about my well-being, and I push past him, running back to where I parked my car with tears forming in my eyes. Footsteps sound behind me. “Hey, it’s ok. I only want to help you”, he calls out, but I keep running, not wanting to be seen as the pathetic person I am. Stopping in front of my car, I search my handbag for the keys and I yelp when strong arms band around me, making my breath hitch and my body to shudder uncontrollably with fear. “Shhh, I will call my brother, and we will fix your car, ok,” he says soothingly, rubbing small circles on my back. I don’t hear what his next words are, my fear consumes me, and I pass out pathetically.