Tears

          She doesn't understand what's happening to her.  All she knows is that something is not right.  Not by any means. 
          She turns her head a little and sees him lying there beside her.  He looks so sweet, sound alseep.  His chest rises and falls peacefully, calmly.  His fists are clenched, tucked under his chest.  His eyes move back and forth behind closed lids.  He grunts and groans a little in his sleep.  His feet kick-out occasionally.
          The bed smells of hard liquor, sweat, cigarettes, and vomit.  She shifts a little, trying to get some of the sheets to cover her naked body.  He turns over, pulling the blankets with him.
          She sighs and watches his chest rise and fall.  He looks so innocent.  A wolf in sheep's clothing.
          She knows what he is.  A monster.  That's all he is now.  He became that the second time he hit her.  She's known this for years.  And yet she is unable to escape him.  Her guilt holds her here.  Her fear cements her to him. 
          She's trapped.  She will be trapped forever.  Until something happens.
          He turns onto his back.  His arm swings over and his clenched fist makes perfect contact with her swollen eye.
          She bites down on her split lip and stifles a whimper. 
          She looks at her pillow.  He's drunk.  He's basically unconcious.  What if she just took her pillow and pressed it to his face?  Would he be able to fight back?  He probably wouldn't even wake-up.  Would she be prosecuted?  What if the police saw her and deemed his death accidental.  Too much alcohol mixed with heroine and coccaine.  Surely that would work!
          She slips her hands under her pillow and holds it against her chest. 
          Now or never, she thinks.
          Her chest is rising and falling quickly now.  She's gripping her pillow with white knuckles.          
          All she has to do is press the pillow to his mouth and nose.  He'll suffocate once he begins to struggle.  He won't wake-up.
          Anything is better than this, she thinks.  Prison for the rest of my life would be better than this.  Right?  I mean, it's got to be better than this.  At least there I'd be safer.  It may not be great, but at least it'll be safer.  Right?
          She sits up and slowly edges the pillow toward his sleeping face.
          His eyes suddenly dart open.  He grabs her wrists and throws her off the bed.  She slams into the nightstand.  Her head collides with the corner of the oak furniture. 
         
          She wakes-up on the living room floor.  The blood from her mouth is already dry.  It's stuck to her lips and chin.  She sits up and feels something shift in her side. 
          She looks around herself, confused.  Where is the pillow?
          She sees the clock on the VCR.  It's after five thirty in the morning.  She remembers it now.  They came back from the bar.  He beat her.  Whether he raped her not, she doesn't know.  The heroine has worn off by now.  She's shaking from withdrawal.  It's only been about eight hours since she had some.  She needs it already.
          At this thought, she breaks down and sobs into her palms.  The wet tears falling along her face mix with the blood.  She cries and two steady streams of blood slip along her cheeks and drip off her chin.
          She will never be free from this hell.  The only way out is death.  Eventually, he will kill her.  Whether it's an overdose, or a beating.  He will kill her.  And nothing anyone will ever do can save her.