An expression of evil(Iain Cambridge) It had been raining non-stop ever since he had walked out the door.

What was left of Emily, since her husband had left her, stared blankly out of the kitchen window and at the torrent that fell from the blackened sky.
Tears that matched the rain now dried on her cheeks and the sobs that accompanied them had shuddered to an eventual halt.
He had gone.
Jake had walked out of her life and into the arms of another woman shortly after ripping her heart out, leaving her shattered, broken and alone.

She had known of course – the signs were always there, but she developed a way of justifying his absences and the excuses for all the late nights. She knew deep down that there had been other women, but it seemed to her that it was just a way of expelling his excess lust, a lust that sometimes bordered on anger.
During their lovemaking, few and far between as those times were, he had become more and more aggressive during climax both verbally and physically. He has begun to slap her on her butt, and although she had enjoyed the odd spanking, sometimes when she was in the mood, the introduction of the words ‘slut’ and ‘whore’, were often preceded by the word ‘Dirty’.
She wasn’t dirty – she was a nice girl.
A good girl.

She felt powerless to object to this obsession he had, for having said nothing at the start she found it hypocritical to say anything now.

In order to satisfy his lusts he saw fit to engage in Emily’s humiliation and would insist on restraining her with silk scarves, which she had to admit she had found pleasurable in the beginning, but this had quickly escalated to rope and eventually, handcuffs. After a while she had found herself playing a variety of roles at his request in order to add substance to his dark and twisted world. Dressing up for him and acting out varying scenarios, even changing her name to suit the character she was playing in this unnatural tale.
The subjects too became more varied and more disturbing with each episode, ranging from schoolgirl, nun, and in once instance, his mother.
On more than one occasion, during that inconvenient time of the month when her body had conspired against her,
Preventing intercourse,
Providing temporary escape from his attacks,
He had found another avenue on her body to pursue.
Even though she had cried in pain at his repeated thrusts of expelled aggression, he carried on as if spurred on by her screams.

So why had she stayed?
Why didn’t she tell him how much she hated this act that no longer could be considered in any normal marriage as ‘making love’?
Why? – Because she loved him.
It was that simple.
She loved him and didn’t want to lose him.

To others it would sound like a pathetic excuse.
To the outside world she would seem weak, a bad example to set to other women. She would be reminded that women were fighting hard for the right to be treated as equals and that she was bowing down to a male fuelled egocentric view as to what women should be like and the way they should be treated. She would be told that women are not objects to be used and abused, and that she should remind him that no means no.
But she didn’t care what they thought or what they would say, for her pride had abandoned her over the many times she had been bent over the kitchen table, the sofa and, in one instance, her desk when he had visited her at work in order to expel some unseen force that possessed his soul.
She loved him and that was all that mattered.

So he had referred to her as his ‘plaything’ – was that so bad?
At least he still found her attractive enough to ‘play’ with her.

Just because their husbands were no longer interested in them, most of them were probably latent lesbians anyway.
And what good had come out of her telling him to stop when he was hurting her?
Where did it get her when she had taken their advice and said no to his demands. Right here – Alone, that’s where.

Slumped at the kitchen table with her throat cut and her heart cut from her chest as his rage found another avenue to express itself, using other things that were as sharp as his tongue and as mortally wounding as his words.

She was aware of the other women, of course.
News reports of prostitutes found dead – mutilated beyond recognition as if some madman had torn at them in an attempt to hide their identity. Abused by the person the press had referred to as a monster, a killer – the ripper. As time want on it was evident that the person responsible was looking for something, tearing at his victims’ stomachs, seemingly searching for signs of impregnation caused by earlier visits – but not by him.
Someone else.
Someone important.
Someone whose heir could not be the spawn of a whore.
She had known of course, but had chosen to ignore the signs.
History would record the outcome - it was not for her to judge others.
The world knew that doctors don’t hurt people.
They help them.
Don’t they?
So his secret would be safe.

It had been raining since he walked out the door, but now it was showing signs of slowing down. And as the rain stopped – so did Emily.


THE END

This story is a fantasy - Domestic abuse is not.
Zero advocacy – Zero tolerance.

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