She scrubbed the kitchen table, not so much in habit but in dread. Her back was beginning to ache, but she ignored it all, only pausing to peel off a tiny bit of garlic that had somehow embedded itself in the table during dinner.
The radio was playing – Ella Fitzgerald was on. Ella was wailing in her crystalline voice, screaming of the woes of something, though the woman (her name was Alyssa) wasn’t paying much attention to the lyrics. She hummed along with the music in a loud harsh buzz, sometimes joining Ella in scat.
Heavy footsteps. Door slam.
She spun around anxiously, soapy water streaming down her sleeves. A terrified look flew to her face and she immediately put down the sponge, wiping her hands on her jeans before swiping a hand through her frizzled greasy hair. She turned around to the front door slowly. Nobody was there. Then, through the thin walls, she heard a man and a woman talk – their names were Nelson and Ivy. They were living with together, but they weren’t married. They didn’t want to pay the taxes.
Alyssa turned back to the table, which was still stained with tonight’s spaghetti dinner, and stifled a sigh, though she wasn’t sure if it was out of relief or worry.
She was trembling.
She stared at the table and then picked up the sponge and tossed it into the sink. It sailed through the air before landing with a soft ‘plod’ on one of the counters. She looked around more and then seized a dust cloth, attacking tiny crevices that might possibly harbor dust. She smiled, dusting off pictures.
“Noooooooooooow you say you’re sorry.”
This particular picture was of her husband and her on their honeymoon. They were both smiling. She was wearing a pink and green bathing suit with a floppy straw hat on and sunglasses. He was wearing jean shorts, one arm wrapped around her and the other around a surfboard. Both looked happy. She stared at this picture for a long moment, stroking her hair longingly. In this picture, it wasn’t frizzy.
Her head snapped up.
Police sirens wailed across the street, and sure enough, a minute later, she heard screaming coming from down below. She paused at this, her eyes squinting as she tried to identify the voices. There was a man’s – dark and husky with a bit of impatience ringing in with the usual boredom. No doubt he was the policeman. And then there was a woman’s – shrill, screaming out insults to the hapless policeman. Her name was Bernice, and she lived in the apartment across from hers. She was divorced and unhappy. Most likely, she was in trouble for drug possession. Alyssa listened a little bit more closely, but could hear no other voices. She paused and stared at the kitchen before leaping over and turning the volume up more.
“Why don’t you crrrrrrrrrrrry me a river?”
Her front door slammed open.
With a cry, she sprang backwards. A familiar odor of stale booze wafted through the room, and she closed her eyes tightly, as if the smell burned her.
“Frank,” she murmured.
“Turn that fuckin’ radio off!” Her husband stomped through the kitchen, spreading mud over the floor, before pulling up a chair and flopping down on it. He stared at her with half-opened eyes and then put his feet up on the kitchen table. She didn’t move. Her eyes were opened in a fearful horror. Then, mechanically, she turned to the radio and turned it down.
“Would you like something to eat?”
“I said turn that damn radio off! What would the neighbors say if you kept blasting that fuckin’ music? Do you want them to throw us out like the last guys?”
“Nobody cares, Frank.”
He snorted at that and kicked off some of the mud off of his boots. “‘Nobody cares, Frank.’ Well, I care. And I suppose you don’t give a damn about me. A fuckin’ damn! And here I give you food and shelter and money. Without me, you would die, you miserable bitch.”
She flinched. Then, very slowly she asked, “Would you like something to eat?”
“Are you going to keep asking me that, or are you actually going to get off your fat lazy ass and do something?” Her face paled, but she turned to the refrigerator and obediently took out the leftover spaghetti.
“Can’t eat with me, anymore, eh?” he asked, looking irritably at her. “Am I contagious?”
“It’s past midnight, Frank.”
“And I’ve been out all this time, working, and you can’t even stay up a little bit longer and wait for me.” She said nothing to this. He hunched his shoulders more. “Get me a beer.”
“No Frank,” she said in the same bland voice she had been answering him. Then she turned around, looking at him carefully. “Not after last night.”
His face turned a deep scarlet. He sprang up unsteadily and clutched his fists. “Get me a beer, woman.” She ignored him and turned around, taking the hot spaghetti out of the microwave. “Get me a beer!” He slammed his fist on her collarbone, and she screamed, falling on the floor in a crumpled heap, her body tangled with hot spaghetti.
He smirked.
She whimpered, getting up, her eyes following her husband as he stepped over her and opened the cabinet door, getting out a beer. With obvious relish, he sat back down, his feet going back to the table, and he popped the can open. “Get me some food.”
She wiped the spaghetti off her face, letting it slide to the floor. Then, still shaking, she stood up. Her clothes, which were pink, were now a deep orange. Then, with a scared look in her face, she said, “You’re not getting any.” His face firmed.
“And why not?”
“Because you ruined it!”
He looked bored. “Make me some more then.” She shook her head firmly, tears beginning to well up in her eyes.
“No, Frank.”
He sprang up once more. “Let’s make this easy,” he growled. “I’m the man of the house. I have two jobs that I do every day, no matter how much I hate them. I do them just for you. Without me, you would die.”
She shook her head quickly, silent tears pouring down her face.
He laughed. “Yes you would, you bitch. In return for the misery you cause me, you do whatever I ask you to do. Got it?”
“It’s past midnight, and I’m so tired… I haven’t slept well for days. And I’m so tired, and I did try, Frank, really, I did.”
“Obviously not hard enough. This place looks like a fuckin’ pig sty.” He glared around, then his eyes found the picture of their honeymoon, newly dusted.
She froze.
He stood up slowly and walked to it. He picked it up carefully, and then turned to her, his face turning red. “So this is what you do! Fuckin’ reminisce all day!”
“No!” she cried, but he slammed the picture into the wall. Glass shattered everywhere. Her small face became pink and she raced for the picture, holding the photograph lovingly in her hands.
“I’ll call the police!” she screamed, looking up at Frank, still cradling the picture. “I’ll call the police and tell them everything – everything! And then you’ll go and then I’ll be free and I’ll be--!
A baby began crying in the other room. Her face turned white, and she looked behind her. “Baby! Oh, baby!”
Frank smiled shrewdly, walking to the refrigerator. “You take care of her, won’t you? I’ll take care of myself – you needn’t worry about me. When I’m done, I expect to see you in bed. Wear that pretty lace nightgown, will you?”
She stared at him for a moment and then nodded quickly. She dropped the photograph and raced for the room where the baby still lay crying.
But at the same time, I would argue that it is a sort of a horror story. If you like to hopelessly analyze stories, then you'll probably figure out that this is in fact a story about a murder - a woman's soul is being brutally beaten down, and at the end all her self respect, everything she considers herself to be, is sacrificed for the sake of her baby. 
