In a Glass, Darkly

*** Content Warnings: Contains themes of domestic violence, physical violence, gore, abuse, and sexual violence. ***

Marco was finally asleep on the bed. Silvia eased out of bed and went into the bathroom. The bright light made her wince. Her reflection showed a woman cowed and bruised, unable to smile because of the damage to her face. Her eyes filled with tears, and she sat on the toilet seat, with her head in her hands. Every so often she tore off some toilet paper to wipe her eyes. Years of practice had taught her to cry silently.

One day, he’ll put me in the hospital again, she thought. Or kill me. I think I’d prefer that.

Her brother had tried to warn her. She’d been young and in love, and she hadn’t listened to him. Now she didn’t even know how to get in touch with him. Marco had mercilessly isolated her from her family and friends. And she had stood by and let him do that.

When Little Marco was small, she couldn’t leave. And now Little Marco was gone, driven away by his father and by her own failure to protect him. For the thousandth time, she wished she had left with him. But Marco would have hunted them down, would have dragged her back. More toilet tissue, dabbing her eyes. When she pulled it away from her face, she saw traces of blood on it.

She looked at the mirror again. Yes, her split lip was bleeding. Face wounds heal very quickly. She knew that from experience. The wounds that took the longest were those you couldn’t see – broken ribs, bruised kidneys, and of course the wounds he inflicted during sex.

I hate him. I could end all of this by killing myself. Or I could kill him.

That thought popped into her mind unexpectedly. She had never considered murder as an escape. But what was there to lose now? Would spending the rest of her life in prison be worse than spending it with Marco? The case would be on the news. Maybe Little Marco would see it and come back to her, understanding why his mother had to do it. Maybe her brother would forgive her!

She stopped. How could she even think of killing Marco? He was her husband, she had made vows to stay with him. Her inner voice scoffed at that – Marco had made vows too, and he’d broken all of them.

I’m not really going to do it. But how could I kill him? He’s fast asleep now. I could cut his throat with a kitchen knife or smash something heavy over his head. There would be blood everywhere; the idea of that makes me feel sick. Or I could put something in his coffee in the morning – the bitter taste would mean he wouldn’t taste the poison. But what poison do I have in the house? And unless it acted immediately, he would kill me for sure before he died.

She smiled wryly, then winced as the split lip reopened. She grabbed more toilet tissue and looked in the mirror again. Her face looked different, somehow. Behind her eyes was a wrath she had never seen there before. She was ready for vengeance for the waste of her life. Staring into the mirror, she counted the times he had hurt her. The small indignities, the spite when he separated her from her family, the threats when he drove Little Marco out of the house, the horrors of their marital bed, the diseases he brought home to her, and the careless way he injured her to deal with the anger he felt at life. How many more times would she cower in front of him, forgive him and tend to his wounds while she was in pain?

I’d like to see his blood staining the bed. I won’t have to clean it up, like I’ve always cleaned up my own blood. I’ll be free of him forever.

The face in the mirror took on a dark aspect. She was not looking at a victim. Instead, she saw a dark avenging angel. In her imagination, the angel wielded a flaming sword.

She thought about cutting his throat while he lay there snoring. She had butchered animals he brought home. Dead animals required a lot of strength to butcher. What would it be like to cut through the throat of a live animal? Would he wake up and fight her off?

Staring at the mirror again, she put her hand to her throat. She could feel the strong pulse of her carotid artery. Could she stab his throat? It couldn’t take long for him to die with a major artery bleed and no blood reaching his brain. She moved her fingers carefully, finding the pulse point where the vessel seemed closest to the surface of the skin. A heavy, really sharp kitchen knife would do the job quickly. Then she could run away before he had time to react and grab her.

I’m not really going to do it. But I want to look at the knife, see how sharp it is.

She walked past the bed. Marco was lying on his back, his mouth wide open, snoring loudly. He didn’t even twitch as she went out of the bedroom and headed downstairs.

In the kitchen, she assessed the knives. The boning knife looked lethal, but it was too flexible. A chef’s knife seemed best suited to the purpose. She had two – an eight inch one for everyday tasks, and a ten inch one for breaking down carcasses. She hefted the ten-inch knife, practicing stabbing motions. One-handed, it was difficult to control. But putting both hands on the handle and bearing down hard, she could hit her target, and the knife would follow through.

Slowly, deliberately, she took out the knife sharpener. This was just kitchen maintenance. Making sure the knives were sharp enough for their purpose. There was no intent to attack anyone. Soon, when she tested the knife edge, it was razor sharp. She put away the sharpener but left the knife out on the counter. She sat on a kitchen stool and stared at it. It gleamed back at her, violent and ready for action.

Again, she thought back through the years of her marriage. Her hands drifted over the places where he had hurt her, feeling for scars, for pain, for the residual feelings of the attacks. She remembered the look on his face. It seemed as though he hated her almost as much as she hated him.

With the knife in one hand and a large kitchen towel in the other, she walked up the stairs and into the bedroom. If Marco woke up now, nothing would happen. She would ask if he wanted a glass of water, go back downstairs and fetch it. But he didn’t stir. She could see his eyes moving beneath his eyelids – he was dreaming.

She dropped the kitchen towel gently over his face. This couldn’t happen if she could see his expression. Then she took the sharpened knife in two hands, stood with it two feet above his throat, and brought it down with all her force into the point where the artery pulsed.

The knife went through his flesh like butter. It didn’t even glance off his windpipe. Immediately, blood spurted up, gushing at her, covering her face and hands. For a second, she was frozen in the horror of it.

Then Marco woke up, crying out. He pulled the towel off his face, howled as he saw the blood, then his eyes focused on her. He reached out and grabbed at her arm, but she was too quick. Marco was yelling at her, swinging his arms. She slashed at his face with the knife, not caring now what damage she did. This was a battle to the death.

Marco put both hands up to protect his face, and she ran out of the room and down the stairs. Above her, she could hear him thrashing about and cursing, but he didn’t follow her. In the kitchen, she cleaned the knife and wiped her face at the sink. She took a pen and notepad out of the drawer and sat down to write. All the time, she could hear him upstairs, but the sounds were getting weaker.

“Tonight I fought back against my husband. He has abused me, raped and beaten and threatened me, for nineteen years of marriage. Tonight I couldn’t take it anymore. I knew he would kill me. There was no way to get away from him, nowhere to go. I don’t know why I suddenly had the power to do it. Maybe he finally broke me completely. I am not a violent woman. But it was him or me.”

There was no further noise from upstairs. Silvia thought grimly that he had probably hastened his own death by reacting so violently. Before she called the police, she had to be sure he was dead. So she sighed and walked back up the stairs.