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Pain was hidden in the palms of his hands. It seeped out, dripping onto her skin every time she said something wrong. Novas exploded wherever his fingers touched, but she took herself to another place where his hands could not curl into fists and his words weren't jagged. She allowed herself to disassociate, to become someone else for a while, until the novas burned themselves out and nothing but embers were left. When the volcano finished erupting, she would clean herself of the burning lava it left behind. She would pick up the table that was knocked over, limp to the kitchen and get the broom to clean the shattered glass on the floor. Sometimes, afterwards, she would trace flowers with her fingertips onto her stained skin, letting the roses bloom after the bruises did.
He raised his hand and she flinched back, already bowing her head, already taking the blame. His fist knocked out a porcelain tooth and she tasted metal in her mouth. She didn't even remember what she had done; maybe he hadn't liked the way dinner was arranged on the table or perhaps the coffee was too sweet. It didn't matter though, those were just excuses.
She had her excuses too, pulling them out of a magician's hat whenever that little rational voice in her head opened its big mouth. Why are you with him? Why don't you leave? Fear seizes up in her at the thought of leaving and she spits back lies, He doesn't mean it. He promised it wouldn't happen again. He loves me. She is Alice in Winterland, tumbling down the rabbit hole, losing bits and pieces of herself on the way.
She knew when to worry, when to go to the bedroom and put on a large, thick sweater to soften the blows. Either he'd come in late, smelling of liquor, his eyes ugly, blood-shot red or he'd come too early, his face blank as he held the credit card bill or the crumpled "Does he hit you?" pamphlet her doctor gave her after seeing all the art he painted on her body. He would look at her with those eyes and wait a couple of seconds, only a couple of seconds, tick-tock-tick, before his face twisted into a grimace and his hands became claws.
He had reasons, words and lists that would justify his actions in his mind, after he slammed the door shut and sat on the porch stairs, his heart still accelerated, his head still pounding. The sky was dark but he wasn't alone, a laughing couple walked down the sidewalk, hands interlaced; an elderly woman crossing the street, her cane tap-tapping on the ground and of course, his millions of thoughts, his devil and angel, tearing each other apart in anger.
Whenever he hit her, it wasn't him, he reasoned, it was some other version, some alter ego, who became angry at the smallest things, who couldn't cope with his fury and channeled it into his hands against her. It was like a high and whenever he came down, his anger restarted at zero and every swallow would bring a fresh wave of guilt, like eating acid candy. Then the dial goes up and up and up, until finally he explodes, finally gets his next hit, finally gets to that high and the colors on her body that had just begun to fade, become vivid and alive and proof.
He would stand, the stairs creaking under him as he stepped back inside and viewed the damage his alter ego had done. The pieces of a broken plate were hiding under the table, water and something else, something red was spilled onto the floor. He would grit his teeth and walk to the living room, where books were strewn across the sofa, her cellphone broken after he had thrown it against the wall. Finally, the bedroom, where he sat, forcing himself to listen to her soft sobs, the only thing in the world that could make him cry.
She wasn't always so fragile, so delicate. At one point, maybe when it first started, she would yell, hit back, push him against the wall and let her bunny-rabbit paws thump against his chest. His face would redden, his mind blank, other than one line repeating and repeating and repeating: hurt her. He would reach that high and the house would shake with their screams. Once, he slapped her hard on the face and she fell to the floor, her cool fingers pressed against her cheek, warm with pain. She stood and watched stars burst in her eyes, stumbled like a drunk, before she grabbed her favorite porcelain vase and threw it at his head. A crash, then a thud and shattered glass sang from the floor. Blood dyed his hair a dark red and his eyes closed, once, twice, before staying shut. She screamed, the loudest of that night, and ran to the kitchen, filling a bowl of water, before rushing back and pouring it on his face. Her heart was electrically fast, thumping in her chest, a pulse beat that he might not have. Slowly though, he woke and the look on his face, like he was a child, like he needed her, was enough to make her stay.
As she lay down later on, after the worst of the earthquake was done, she shivers even with the heaviest of blankets covering her. She whimpers as she pressed cloths damp with alcohol onto her bleeding skin, trying her best to deal with the aftershocks.
He stopped seeing her after a while and began seeing all his mistakes and fears and dreams that were tied down too loosely and slipped out of his fingers like fog. He stopped seeing the girl that he was in love with, let that memory break like a favorite vase; you could glue it back together, but it was hard not to notice the cracks.
He was a fire-breathing dragon, blind with rage and she, a peasant girl lost in the forest. She hid in the briar bush, waiting for him to hibernate for Summer. It's a shame that in his world, Winter never ends.
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