Because I Love Her

1. Write a short story with special meaning.
2. Discuss Americans' obsession with creating the illusion of fear.
3. During your final waking moments, what crosses your mind?

The slam of the door resounds. A scream of hate becomes the melody, followed by a sickening crash destined to be the harmony. Music of the Night. The discord of sound overwhelms me once again. I should be used to such antics by now, yet this rage is different. The old rocking chair with its peeling black paint, now misfigured and broken, lays on the pristine white carpet. Anguish overcomes me as I anticipate how tonight is sure end. Crash. Crash. The tinkling of glass shattering is barely audible over my pounding heart.

Run.

She'll get me if I don't. Must get out. Escape. Window? Door? Breathless, I begin to inch towards the salvation of fresh air. Suddenly, the silence is overwhelming. I glance over my shoulder willing there to be nothing but the black remains of the chair. My heart sinks. The monster of my nightmares quakes with rage, targeting her next conquest. Oh God. Nothing will stop her. Smoldering, she stalks towards me, anger seething through her veins. Transfixed by her twisted smile, my legs won't respond to my brain's desperate attempts to cajole them into running. Her teeth are exposed, pointed, dangerous, lethal. Her arm is held aloft, her exposed claws glittering in the low light.

Trembling, I manage one step backwards before I feel them rip through my skin. Flesh reeling from sudden exposure to air, pain floods through my body, my face pounding. Attempts to stagger away are met with blows from all sides. Blind to everything but the symphony of fists that plays on my skin, I crumple to a heap on the ground. Swimming in and out of consciousness, I lay there for hours - afraid to move.

Once I find the courage, I ease one of my swollen eyes open. The battlefield surrounds me on all sides: broken glass, disfigured furniture, smashed picture frames. All attempts to move are futile: the texture of the carpet irritates my wounds causing blood to penetrate the pristine white. Unconsciousness overcomes me once again, and I take refuge in its black nothingness. Too soon, daylight washes over my bruised and bloodied body. My eyes flicker open again, but this time the scene is so very different. No longer are the causalities of the previous night visible. Everything is back in its place. The shards of glass that had been as abundant as grains of sand only the night before are gone. The illusion of perfection had been restored. Except for me. My battered body and the specks of red surrounding me is the only evidence of what happened here behind the closed doors.

Soon, that will change as well. Her perfect feet will tiptoe silently across the perfect carpet. Her hands will be free of my blood, but her face will be stained with tears. She'll bend down beside me, tell me how sorry she is; promise it'll never happen again, even though we both know that's a lie. But I'll pretend to believe her. Warm water in the white bowl is what she'll bring when she comes back to me. With her white cloth, she'll make me new again - the last of the evidence will be scrubbed from the white carpet. We'll pretend it never happened. Everything will be pristine, clean and white. And this time, it'll stay that way. But for now, I remain here: waiting. I know I shouldn't stay. I know I should pack my bags and leave. Yet I can't. Yet I will stay. Because I always do. Because I love her.