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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
This short story is about domestic violence, it was submitted for my A levels last year - but i just found it today and i'm quite proud of it!

Submitted: August 02, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 02, 2012




Her eyes looked into mine, leaking with anxiety. Her lips were twitching as if words were fighting to escape, but the barriers wouldn’t let them. Her nostrils flared whilst her eyebrows furrowed. She sat on the frayed sofa, her skinny frame all hunched up. She stretched the sleeves of her jumper over her hands and fiddled with her wedding ring, twiddling it round her finger over, over and over again. The shock of a shiver jolted her body; she bucked up and placed her hair behind her ear. Her hair was moist with grease and tiredness, and her fingernails were bitten down to the skin.

She stared at her wedding ring for what felt like hours. I placed my hand on hers and felt the cold blood rush to her fingertips. She gripped my hand back so tightly I thought she’d never let go. She draped her minuscule arms around my neck and squeezed me close. Her hug was a cave of sorrow. “What’s wrong?” I whispered in her delicate ear. She said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her body started to tremble like a motorbike refusing to start. “Was it him again? Did he do it again?” Nothing.

Cup of tea, tea solves everything. “Do you take sugar? I always forget!” She nodded and licked her lips. She looked as if she hadn’t eaten in months. We sat for hours sipping hot tea. Pouring more and more tea from the black and white teapot, the tea was never-ending like she thought her love for him would have been. Every time she took a sip she inhaled a deep breath before, and sighed with satisfaction after. Both of her hands cupped her mug and she mellowed with the warmth. ‘Worlds Best Girlfriend’ the mug was printed with a reminder of what was once there; she noticed my eyes reading the clichéd words and the thought of them rotating around my head.

The remains of the mug were scattered along on the wooden floor, tiny bits of china separated from each other, metres apart. Split with lies.

Blood drew from her nose. She opened her mouth to scream, but no noise came out, the only noise aloud were the echoes of his footsteps. He held his head low and had his hands glued inside his pockets. She followed and just before she closed the door she peered round and gave me a look, the look that meant ‘don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’ I’ve seen that numerous times. I stayed super-glued to the kitchen chair – useless. I wanted to run in with the kitchen knife and stab him through the chest.

For that one second the thought of stabbing him did cross my mind. My palms started sweating, I clenched my fists tight, so tight my nails dug into my skin leaving a trail of anger. I rushed up leaving the rejected chair collapsed behind me. I marched to the kitchen drawer and grabbed the sharpest knife, the knife looked so appealing. The metal handle felt like an icicle in my sweaty palm. I lifted it up towards my face, I saw my image lengthen. And then the noises started. At first it was a thud, a push against the welcoming arm chair. Then it was a harsh slap. The noise of his tough palms clouted against her soft cheeks. Then the echoes of deep, poisonous, muffled chants escaped his vulgar lips.

I left it behind in the kitchen drawer. I stepped away from the drawer and towards the hallway, the hallway was like a tunnel of hurt, and never ending darkness. I followed the red lights to the room they were both in. I pressed my ear against the cold door and heard nothing. I grasped my hand around the brass handle and pushed down. She was there, but she wasn’t. Her face was covered with reminders of him and her mouth was slightly open revealing missing teeth and bleeding gums. “Sarah?” I whispered, “Sarah?”

I held her hand in the ambulance; I held her hand in the hospital bed. My eyes stared at her ruined face. I selfishly longed that maybe one day she’d open her eyes fully and see me as hers, as she used to. But her eyes were stapled closed and refused to open. Wires and tubes were overcrowding her face and petite frame. The thought of me not being ‘there’ for her haunted me, and the feel of jealousy and anger hung around me like a bad dream.



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