THE WORST KIND OF MARRIAGE – PART 2

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The blood from the knife wound drenched her nightie. She looked over to her husband, the one who had stabbed her. He tilted his mug back and had a sip of his coffee. He was reading the Sunday comics until he noticed her gaze, at which point he raised his eyebrows.

She smiled as best she could.

Four months of this now. Four months since he had found her walking and forced her into his van. A gun to her head the entire ride over.

Play it cool. 

That was what did her in. Play it cool. A lot of good that did. From the moment she set foot in his house she was finished. Every window was boarded up with blinds to keep outsiders from peeking in. A lock on the front door to which only he had the key. She was only allowed in the backyard under his supervision. His supervision was a pointed rifle.

She hated him.

Huerto was his name. The first day he forced their ‘marriage’. The ceremony was him forcing his grandma’s old wedding band onto her finger. Huerto declared them husband and wife.

With the barrel pointed at her head, she said, “I do.” With the barrel still pressed to her head, she received his kiss.

Bethany looked over to Huerto. He was still at the kitchen table tearing a white napkin into little pieces. She moaned softly, so that only she could hear, and felt the bloody wound again. Her vision was beginning to blur. Her strength was already depleted. She leaned against the counter top and looked around to all the boarded windows. She sniffed.

A knock came to the door.

Huerto immediately looked to her, eyes wide. He picked up his rifle from its lean against his thigh, brushed his hands off each other and stood up.

“Let’s go,” he said.

He shoved her several times as she struggled to walk. She passed the front door biting her lip, begging beyond hope that the door-knocker would just barge in and spot her. He didn’t.

Huerto threw her into the closet. Quickly he wrapped a towel tightly around her mouth, then stuffed it into her bite.

The doorbell rang three times.

“Don’t say a fuckin’ word,” Huerto said, pointing his finger.

Bethany gulped.

Huerto shut the closet door and locked it behind. She was engulfed in darkness. Blood oozed from her wound onto her thigh. ‘Police,’ she whispered in her mind. ‘Please, be the police.’

She needed to get out.

Today.

Part 3, Coming Soon!

– Thomas M. Watt

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