Love

The third of these stories is about a violent relationship, again written in Russia.

Love

The wound still smarts three days later. Her left eye felt the brunt of his momentary madness; the bruise is blackened and sore. She drove him to it, of course. He would never deliberately do anything to hurt her. She knows that.

The first time, she’d walked into a door. She’d not been looking where she was going; the kids were acting up, she was trying to get him his tea before he had to go out again (though what cause he had to go out so late on Monday nights, she could never work out – he never seemed to come home on those nights, either) and it just happened. A momentary lapse of concentration was all it took. A black eye and two stitches; a night in a hospital. These things happen, don’t they?

It’s not his fault, it’s hers. She needs to be more attentive.

The second time had been different. The wounds had been lower, on her thighs this time. She’d fallen whilst coming down some stairs and landed awkwardly. She didn’t know how she could have been so silly – but then, she probably should have been looking where she was going.

These are the stories she tells to others and to herself. She could write a book. She’d call it Love: An Irony.

This time is the third in a month. She said something wrong; maybe about his drinking, maybe about his staying out late and the lack of phone calls when he did so. Maybe she’d done nothing wrong at all – he probably just felt bored. She remembers that after she’d said whatever it was that made him so mad, he’d come at her from the other side of the living room, fist raised and grinning that sick grin as she cowered on the sofa. As she slid to the floor, crying, he’d punched her in the face for the second time and stamped on her stomach. When the kids came down to see what the matter was, he’d sent them back upstairs and said that Daddy would be up in a minute to read them a story. Once they’d gone, he’d hit her again and again and called her a cunt.

But she’s probably just walked into a solid object again, like a door, for example. She’s ever so clumsy; there’s no end of mystery bruises on her skin and he’s such a loving husband that the injuries couldn’t possibly have anything to do with him. She laughs dryly to herself at this thought as she looks at the wound in the mirror and winces; it hurts to smile. This is not love. This love is a lie.

Her wounds are real.