And She Cries

He comes in the night. He knocks on the door. Three times. Knock. Knock. Knock. I get up. I walk down the stairs and turn the corner. I walk through the kitchen. It’s dark. I can’t see. I hit my knee on the table. I don’t speak. I breathe heavily. I keep breathing. I try to stifle the sound. I can’t. I keep trying. A fourth knock. A fifth. He doesn’t knock five times. He must know. He must suspect something. I get to the door. I open it. It’s raining. He walks in.

I wake up. It’s morning. I don’t know how long the sun has been up. The linoleum is hard against my skin. My nightdress is torn. I’m bleeding. My leg is bleeding. I try to get up and fall. I try again and fall. I grab the table and pull myself up. I stand shaking. I look around the room. It looks okay. He didn’t tear it apart. He was good. My head hurts. I feel the side. There’s a bump. But it’s okay. It’s not bleeding. I walk slowly and carefully out of the kitchen. I walk into the bathroom. My eye is dark and puffy. I feel it. It hurts. It didn’t hurt before I touched it. I start crying.

I call in to work. I don’t want to go. I feel bad. I ache. My body aches. I’m embarrassed. My eye is hurt. People will ask questions. “How did you hurt your eye?” What happened last night?” They’ll want to know. And I won’t tell them. They’ll think I’m a slut. They’ll think I’m a bad person. They’ll talk. I don’t need it. No, I don’t. I sit alone. I look at the door. The chain falls across the upper right corner. The lever is turned. No one can get in. I’m safe. But I don’t feel that way.

I sit to the door all day. I sit and watch. I play the last night in my mind. I remember walking to the door. I remember hitting my knee upon the table. I remember the fourth and the fifth knock. It was raining. It was. But then- then what? I don’t know. I know, but I don’t know. I can’t do it anymore. I decide right then. I decide that I can’t do it. My body aches. It’s all wrong. But that won’t stop him, will it? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t. Not any better than what he does. I cry again.

The night comes. I turn the corner and go up the stairs. I move slowly. My leg hurts. It had stopped bleeding, but I didn’t clean it. I’m still wearing my nightdress, my torn nightdress. I get into bed. I don’t sleep. I lay awake and listen. I listen for the first. Then the second. And then the third. I sit. Silence. Silence. Silence. Silence. Silence.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I get up. I walk down the stairs. I turn the corner. I go into the kitchen. It’s dark. I hit my knee on the table. I breathe heavily. I hurt. Everything hurts. I see his shadow in the door. I smell his scent. I see the whiskey dripping from his wet lips. I open the door. It’s a cold night. He walks in.

He stares at me for a moment. I stare back. He walks past and sits at the table. He still stares. He hasn’t shaved. His skin is brown with musk. His eyes are there, they look, and they burn. They hurt. I wince as I sit down. He speaks. He’s broken. He tries to love. His hand moves to mine. I shake as I endure. I don’t move. His lips that stink of whiskey move to mine. I taste it. I don’t like it. It makes me cough. It makes me gag. I gag. I keep gagging. I get sick. He doesn’t like it. He yells. He gets up. He pushes me down. My leg hurts. He tears my dress a little more as he moves in. He takes off his shirt and his undershirt. My head hurts. I see him coming closer. Closer.

I wake up. It’s morning. I don’t know how long the sun’s been up. The linoleum is hard against my skin.

It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t. He loves. Just not like everyone else. He comes in the night. Some people have to. They just don’t understand the day. Some people just don’t understand. He comes in the night. He comes, and I answer. I answer. It doesn’t stop.

A guy