The Beginning

        They wandered home slowly. His arm draped on her waist casually. Her head resting against his shoulder gently. Their footsteps in sync. Their voices soft whispers. Their smiles perfect and young.
        "Thanks for supper," she said softly, looking up into his eyes and smiling.
        "Anytime," he answered, squeezing her hip with tenderness.
        She smiled a little more as they walked along the street.
        Two months. They'd gone out to celebrate their anniversary. The past eight weeks had flown by in a whirlwind of love and laughter. Everyone was enviousness of their relationship. Everyone knew about their relationship.
        Her parents loved him. His parents loved her. They shared the same group of friends. They shared the same classes. They shared everything.
        It was Saturday night. It was a little past ten o'clock. The meal had last three hours. They bought everything they could. His father had provided the Visa card. He didn't tell her. She knew it anyway.
        "We can still make the late game," he whispered in her ear, just before he kissed her neck softly.
        She smiled and couldn't quite manage to surpress a soft giggle. "Who's playing?"
        "Oilers."
        "And who are they playing against?"
        "Not sure," he answered, leading her up to the building. "We'll check when we get upstairs."
        She smiled even more as he lead her past the doorman, into the lobby, and then into the elevator. It was the newest building in the city. Everything was brand new. Everything was worth a fortune. His father provided the suite -mostly for business- which always went to his youngest son when the family was out of town.
        The glowing blue numbers ran off on their own, climbing higher as the silent elevator rose to the top of the building. And, as its occupants fell into a deep and long kiss.
        A soft chime whispered to them. The glowing blue numbers read fifteen. They stepped out onto an empty landing, save for a single door with gold numbers -Suite Main.
        He grinned, wrapping his arm around her from behind, and kissing her neck lightly. The key in his left hand quickly found the lock, and they stepped into the dark penthouse.
        She slipped off her jacket, and took his. Both long garments were hung in the entrance closet. He was already in the living room, lounding on the black leather couch. She slipped off her shoes, leaving them by the locked door. He kept his on.
        She slipped onto the couch beside him and kissed him lightly. The game was already on. He draped his arm over her shoulders, pulling her closer. The remote was in his right hand, his left resting on her shoulder and squeezing ever so slightly.
        They watched the game. It was about five minutes into the first period. The Oilers had already scored two goals.
        "Hey," he whispered, watching the television, "Could you get me a drink?"
        She laughed and playfully hit his stomach. "Dream on!"
        His head turned and he faced her. "What?" Their was laughter in his voice.
        "You've got legs," she said, kissing his jaw. "You can get your own drink."
        "Well, yeah. But I don't want to miss anything."
        She laughed a little, "And I do?"
        He pulled his arm from her shoulders and stood. She watched him go into the kitchen, and come back with a bottle of Coors. He sat down, opened the bottle, and took a long swig.
        "None for me, then?" she said, playfully.
        He sighed and watched the game, "You've got legs."
        She stood and moved into the kitchen, getting herself a bottle of water from the fridge. Their was an edge to his voice. She shrugged it off. More than likely, he was upset that the Oilers weren't leading by more than only two goals.
        His feet were up on the coffee table. His beer was in his right hand, the remote lying on his leg. She reached for it, wanting to check the news during the commercial.
        "Don't touch the remote!" he said, grabbing it from her.
        "Why not?"
        "Because you'll start flipping through every channel and I'll end-up missing something."
        She couldn't help but stare at him, now.
        "What?!" he demanded, placing the remote control out of her reach.
        "I'm just as interested in this game as you are."
        He didn't reply. Instead he just went back to his beer. She shrugged and took a sip of her water. Some evening, she thought silently.
        By the time the second period came to its end, they were at opposite ends of the couch. Three empty beers sat on the floor by his feet. Her water was half empty.
        Suddenly, she stood up and moved off to the entrance.
        "Where are you going?" he asked, standing and watching her pull her coat out of the closet.
        "I'm going home."
        "Why?"
        "Because, Keith, you're being an asshole."
        He stared for a moment before approaching her. Very gently, he took her face in his hands -without putting the nearly empty bottle of beer down- and kissed her lightly. "Don't go," he whispered, "I'm sorry."
        "Mom won't like me staying the night anyway," she said, pulling on the sleeve of her jacket.
        "Since when do you care about that? You've stayed here with me loads of time before now."
        She slipped her feet into her shoes and struggle to slip her arm into the other sleeve. "Yeah, well," she began, fighting with her jacket now, "I'm going home."
        She felt him grab her arm and hold it tight. "You can't go home."
        She stared at him. "Let go of me."
        He didn't answer her. He kissed her. He said how much he loved her. He told her that she was the one for him. He didn't let go of her arm.
        "Keith," she said through clenched teeth, trying to hold her anger, "Let go of my arm."
        Then, he hit her. His right hand crossed past his left shoulder and hung there for a split-second. Then, she watched as the cold beer bottle moved closer to her face. It was a brown blur. She didn't see it -not really. She felt it.
        The cold and thick base of the glass bottle struck her face. She felt it collide with her right cheekbone. She felt the small indents in the bottles bottom peel at her skin. She felt her head snap to the left -hard and fast enough that she felt fire explode from the base of her neck, and climb to the very top of her head, within her skull.
        The white and black tiled floor flew up to meet her. She fell hard. Her left wrist broke her fall. Her face stung and throbbed.
        She clenched her jaw. Pure rage flooded her veins. She looked up at him, and made to grab at his ankle, to drag him down to the floor with her. She was strong. She had fought with the boys all her life. There was no way some drunk asshole was going to do this to her! No way in fucking hell!
        As she grabbed for his ankle, she watched a black blur come at her face. Before she knew what happened, the toe of his shoe smashed against her swollen eye.
        She tried to grab his ankle again. She couldn't see anything from her right eye. She couldn't hear anything except the blood slamming against her ears, and the deep gasping breaths filling and emptying her lungs.
        She felt another solid and cruel object slam against her ribs. And then, a second later, another something slam straight into her stomach.
        Had she not been on the floor already, she would have doubled-over. All the air in her body seemed to explode from her. She lied there, turning-in on her body, gasping for air.
        She looked up at him as he knelt beside her. Their was sweat on his forehead, dripping off his nose. He looked as though he'd just run a marathon in the middle of July.
        His hand reached her throat. His fingers locked around her windpipe, and he screamed in her ear. "If you ever try to make me feel guilty again, I'll kill you!"
        He lifted her head from the floor, about a foot and a half. His fingers tightened even more. She felt every inch of his calloused hand on her skin. She felt her body still reeling from having the wind knocked out of her. And then, she felt him push her head down and back.
        The tiled floor connected with the back of her skull. She heard something like a melon being smashed by a baseball bat -a dull and hollow sound, echoing in her ears, mingling with the pounding blood. Fresh pain swarmed through the entirety of her head, a sharp and burning dagger almost piercing into her from her head was being ground into the flooring.
        Everything went very dark. The last thing she was aware of was the dagger pushing itself further and further into her head.

        She woke up and everything was still dark. She could barely move. She looked at her wrist for her watch. It was gone. Everything was gone. Her earrings. Her necklace. Her rings. Everything.
        Her right was was burning and pulsing. She touched it, tentatively. It burned and pulsed even more. She winced as her fingers touched the broken and swollen flesh. She felt something crack and peel as her face winced.
        The door was just beside her. She took the handle and lifted herself up, ignoring her body. She stumbled to the kitchen and stared at her reflection in the microwave door.
        Her right eye was nearly completely swelled shut. It was already purple and green. Her bottom lip was slip and caked with dry blood. She reached behind her head. Her hair as her fingers broke the caked-blood entangled therein. She pushed her fingers in a little, looking for her skull. She found it easily -the dagger pushed forward again.
        Very slowly, she made her way to the washroom. She turned on the light, and stared even more.
        Her face was worth than the kitchen had reported. Her lip was purple, bleeding freshly, and swollen to the point that she looked to be pouting. Her eye was painted in dark and dry blood, a substantial gash running from the far corner to the base of her cheek bone.
        Her mind fled to the blows against her stomach and ribs. She lifted her blouse, and stared at the bruised ribs. Deep blue patches were now painted on her skin. She didn't dare touch those marks.
        Her sight wandered back to her face. She stared. She couldn't do anything but stare. His words rang in her ears again, just as they'd one when he originally spoke. "I'll kill you." Three words. Almost like "I love you". Except completely different.

        Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she can't help but remember that first night. Two months lead to almost four years. It would have been longer still, but three things:
        Her friends figured it out, and watched her closely, always showing support but refusing to let her go back.
        He went to far, and subsequently overdosed one night on heroine. It was suicide. She received a letter three days later in the mail.
        The third thing wasn't much, really. She had spent a long time with her friends, when the marks were at their worst. It was with them that she realized her freedom was their. It was that realization that pushed him to suicide.
        Everyone will tell her it wasn't her fault. Suicide is a solitary act. You can't blame yourself for someone killing themselves. But she still does. She always will. She could have stopped him. She doesn't know how, but she knows that she could have.
        What would have been worse? A few bruises and a couple of broken bones, or knowing that you killed someone?