Picture It & Write It September 09,2012


Today, I am writing for Ermilia, at http://ermiliablog.wordpress.com

She had been held captive for so long by her dead husband, and now she was expressing to the world who she really was. She had lived for seventeen years with a controlling husband. She had done all he had said, followed all of the rules, but it was never enough.

He got satisfaction of seeing the terror in her eyes each time he came after her with a broom handle, or a fire poker. When he said jump, she automatically asked how high. If his meal was not prepared the way he wanted it, he would take the plate and shove the meal in her face, break the plate over her head, and demand that she start over and fix it right.

Inside she screamed tears, hating him, loving him at the same time. She had married young. She had dreams of for ever after, but soon after the vows were said out loud, and the papers signed, she became his property.

She could always remember the night before their wedding, as they lie in each others arms, hearing him profess his love for her, promising to take care of her for the rest of her life. This was the last night she ever remembered  smiles and love flowing from  her heart.

The animal that had been hiding for so many years, had shown itself, the insecurities of this man, called her husband. He was afraid that she would leave him, as his own mother left his father. He was determined that this would not happen in his own marriage, so he started the abuse of holding her hostage, never letting her go.

If she received a phone call, and he was home from work, he would sit so close to her, so he could listen to every word that was said, waiting to see if she was trying to make plans to be with another man. When they went to bed for the evening, instead of holding her in his hands, he was picking out her clothes for the next day, making sure she was not going to be able to draw attention to herself.

Bill paying and getting simple things like groceries, she could always guarantee, that her shadow would be next to her. She could not even take her own bath, as he was always found sitting near by, reading his paper.

Who she thought she was had been ripped apart and now it was hiding in the background of her mind, never knowing if she would ever reappear again.

The one friend she had for so many years, would sneak over to her house by foot, and enter through the back door, so no neighbors would see her. Her husband had met all the neighbors and had warned them that if they ever saw someone drive in to their drive way, or saw her outside, to please call him, because as he explained, his dear wife had suffered an emotional break down and was in a fragile situation. With his smiling face and sparkling teeth, they had no reason to question him, and so helped him to keep an eye on his house for him.

As the best friend observed more black eyes and bruises the two would plot on how to get her out of the house unharmed, but never being able to quite pull it off. The phone would ring, her husband calling to check up on her, scaring the girlfriend enough to go home.

One evening, he did not come straight home from work, and when he did unlock the front door he was drunk. There had been a birthday party for the boss, and after work the bunch of them ended up at the local bar celebrating. Although he was drunk, he was not so much that he ignored her and what she was doing.

She was found to be sitting by the window where she had been watching head lights go by, wondering what he was doing and where he was. He immediately asked her who she was waiting for, and when she replied that he was who she had been waiting for he became enraged.

He raced towards her and grabbed her and threw her on the couch. He grabbed her hair and with his other hand started slapping her over and over in the face, bouncing her head back and forth. She reached out and grabbed his hands and bit him. He was not prepared for this attack from her and he jumped back in pain, inspecting his bite marks.

This gave her time enough to run to her bedroom and slam the door locking it behind her.
She jerked open her night stand drawer, and there lying hidden in the shadows at the back of the drawer, was the revolver that her best friend had given her only a few days a go. Her friend said use it, please use it when he hurts you. Please don’t let him kill you.

She quietly took the revolver out and cocked it and aimed it at the bedroom door, as her friend had taught and instructed her. She could feel her breathing choking her lungs, and sweat was pouring from her brow as the fear rose inside of her.

She wanted to live, and she was going to live. She had enough of this so-called love. The door knob was being rattled as she heard words being yelled at from the other side. Let me in. I know you have someone in there. Let me in you untrustworthy bitch!

She stood still aiming the gun as he thrust his body against the door until it came slamming opened. She didn’t hesitate and shots could be heard, echoing from within the walls of the house. He fell to the ground, and silence bursted from the room. She dropped the gun, and went and called 911.

The cops came and arrested her for the murder of her husband.  A trial was placed and with the help of her girlfriends testimony, she was let go and found to be innocent against the crazy man.

A few years later, she was holding her brush,  teaching her class of students, showing them how to tilt the brush and to gently let it glide down the paper, to make the vines from the rose. With the right pressure being held, students were being taught how to express themselves. The topic for this art class was called love.