Written by Aniah Hill
A screamed escaped out the small window
above the ivory toilet
where she had tried to hide after breaking free
from her closet prison
He slammed her against the door frame, again and
again, until she stopped struggling. Then he slapped her
across the face, into another state
of mind where everything was ringing warnings and
all of existence was spinning out of control.
She was tossed in the closet like a rag doll,
her bones collapsed into scraps and fragments of
spent fabric, unable to weaver herself
back into an action figure
Wanda heard her neighbor, who sometimes sold tickets
to PTA events, slam her window against
the commotion. Glen was raging between rooms, ranting
about how he was God, and man
of the house. Down the hall her three small children were crying.
She heard her husband yell at them, scold them
as if they were to blame, then yank the door closed to lock them
in their room. In a way, the best place for them.
The safest place in what was unfolding.
It had been hours since he had found the divorce papers, downloaded
from online, and dated two years prior. Stuffed in a Bible
she was so sure he would never open, but did
while searching for verse to support his distorted self-concept,
releasing the secret intent that had been brewing
for six of their ten-year union.
Leaving him was always on her mind. But the children
needed a father, who they love, no matter how bad he behaved,
it’s better than none, or so she had read
in an award-winning parenting
book. So, despite the despair,
she couldn’t make the decision to leave
her husband who was her high school sweetheart,
she couldn’t swallow the fact that
fairytales of endless love don’t exist in real life and
even if it did it wouldn’t whack you
across your tender face
Glen kept checking on her to make sure
her will remained beaten into submission
Any sign that she stirred inside the darkness
would bring him back for another slap or
slam against the wall, making sure not
to leave any bruises, a lesson he learned early on
to avoid evidence that he was more than just
a threat
At any sign of resistance Glen used the weight
of his 5’7’’, 225-pound body against the door, sealing
it shut. He would sit, for hours, leaning back
grinning in satisfaction.
Wanda was mostly rolled in a ball, sobbing in a corner of cluttered
old clothes. Forced into conversations with her gray suit and
worn out dark shoes. Inhaling the musty smell of closed spaces,
pondering how it all got this far,
how her true love could turn out to so abusive,
how her life could be a gaslight.
Glen was a star
on the football field. Cheerleaders from both teams chanted
his name during games. He was BMOC, big man
on campus. So Wanda was surprised when his eyes turned
toward her quiet science, a nest of nerdy high functioning
autistic connections. Her small frame and underdeveloped
bust made her less desirable than most of her more formed
high school classmates. She had blushed just to be considered.
Her face flushed at his touch.
She was his queen, at first. He bowed
to her every wish. Kissed her hand
when they would meet. Lavished her with
gifts and praise. Promised they would be together
always.
But worship fell into resentment, suddenly and without warning
when Glen woke up angry, the day of the wedding
and even though Wanda’s favorite cousin flew in from Milwaukee,
Glen wouldn’t allow anyone to attend, so it ended up
an unwitnessed ceremony
performed by a justice of the peace in a windowless
home –turned- into -office on Clement St.
Up the long, narrow staircase of an old Victorian
apartment building, they had come to purple and
blue stained glass working as window, beautifully blocking
out all light, leaving them standing in darkness. The couple
were led into an equally dim room to wait for the Justice, who appeared from what was probably remnants of the kitchen. She was
of a manly frame, with broad shoulders and a heavy gut
There was not much emotion
as she read what was legally required only, before making
the bland pronouncement that they were now man and wife
That day marked a change in Glen that became
his truth, an angry ooze of abuse
slithering slowly, until the viscosity breaks
and the flow escalates. A lot of movement around
immobilization, holding her down while hissing
humiliation into her face. Slaps for minor offenses like
talking out of order. Kicks and drops
for forgetting groceries. A head first
trip down the stairs after asking the wrong
question.
Ten years later Glen had morphed into a monster. An unstable
mangle of mania, flipped on and off like a light switch
that randomly chooses to flicker between reality and
insanity. And this day the switch was flipped to manic.
With his eyes bulging wide, sweat dripping from his forehead
down to his chest, every word expressed as spit, sprayed
through tight lips
He pressed his body against hers
pinned her between his hot sour breath and the
wilted black dress with a cowl collar, reserved
for funerals, wakes and graduations. Then Glen grabbed
her scarlet silk scarf and quickly wrapped it around her neck
slowly tightening it into a knot that kept slipping
as he maintained a deep gaze into her glass eyes
tired eyes about to across a line
Then, she ignited
Glen was so caught up in intimidating Wanda
into a breathless death that he forgot he had
testicles, vulnerable to frustrated kicks attacking
his loin with vengeance. He went down
to the floor and she leaped but tripped
over his flailing grip, her ankle planted
by pain that was rapidly burning into rage
But she still had one leg that was free and flexible
at the knee. She drew it back, towards her chest
then let it fling forward, ninja fashion
an arrow striking his bullseye of a face, forcing
away his grip, freeing
Wanda, who fled to the kitchen.
She was waiting for Glen in the kitchen. Armed with
Christmas china and crystal wine glasses, she pelleted
his head as soon as it peaked around the corner. Service
for six blasted against body and walls, creating
a mist of fragments floating on fractured sentiments. When it settled
both were still standing, facing each other, panting
Glen, piercing sharp eyes darting back and forth
Wanda, eyes steady and straight, her will wrapped around
a butchers knife
She reached the thin at the end
And the breaking point shattered
into a place where nothing mattered
it didn’t matter if he killed her
it didn’t matter if she killed him
it didn’t matter if the children witnessed their parents kill each other
it only mattered that he would never strike her
ever again.
This was the end.
She lunged at him, tried to stab him in the heart
but he reached around and grabbed her missile wrist,
in the process sustaining a superficial scratch
then he disarmed her and she fled,
flung open the front door to find the police
responding to a call about a domestic disturbance
Wanda immediately broke down into tears, became almost
hysterical, barely able to put together a coherent statement
Glen flipped into the picture of composure, collected himself into
rational, courteous and polite
He pulled the policemen to the side
where they had a man conference and shared
stories of irrational wives that lose control,
spitefully slash tires and arms but never
get charged
They handcuffed Wanda’s unexploded wrist behind her back
and led her past the whispers of nosey neighbors
to a waiting police care, parked behind three ambulances
that had been called to put a band-aid on Glen’s arm
The police and firemen shook hands with Glen
then the policeman with the pending divorce proceeding
gave Glen pamphlets and a form so he could register
as a victim of domestic violence
The police car took off with Wanda, still speechless, in the back.
About the Author
Aniah Hill is a native San Franciscan, creative artist and aspiring author. Much of her written work is based on lived experiences expressed as poetry and can best be described as creative nonfiction poetry. She has earned a Creative Writing Certificate of Achievement from CCSF, which laid the foundation for exploration into a new, second career in the literary arts. As a visual artist, she creates custom gemstone-based jewelry, crowns and crafts.
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