“Eric, stop. Please, you’re hurting me.”

But he wouldn’t. He held my hair tight, and I was unable to move. He ignored my cries and my desperate attempts to squirm away. My screams grew louder as he yanked the tendrils of hair back and forth, as he kept me at his mercy.

“This what you want, you fucking slut? Think you can swan around here like a fucking cocktease for anyone to see?”

The bulk of his leather shoe dug into my ankle, forcing my legs apart or else suffer the pain of being stomped on.

“No, please.”

He yanked my head, his hot breath near my ear. “Shut up! Who the fuck do you think you are?”

I let my body do as he pleased, my bottom half limp but my upper torso rigid, with my head tilted backwards, hair wrapped around his fist, and my back painfully arched. It was no use to fight him, I’d only be worse off. Bruised and in more trouble.

Eric thrust his unwanted cock hard inside me. Unprepared, my pussy no longer wet from this morning’s little striptease, pain sliced through me as I gritted my teeth and held back what would be a deafening scream; I couldn’t let the neighbours hear.

I regretted teasing him this morning, leading him on, too bold for my own good. I’d been foolish to think we could make love like a normal married couple. This was not what I had in mind earlier, far from it. But at least this would tide him over for another few months.

It’d be over soon, I told myself. I just had to close my eyes and wait while he finished ripping me apart from the inside and out.

Early on in our marriage it had seemed like a blessing—stay at home, do whatever I wanted with my time—but slowly, little by little, he chipped away at my confidence. His requests had all seemed so innocent, but with each and every restriction he placed upon my decisions, I inadvertently let him take away my freedom, my voice. I became weak, my willpower sapped, wanting only an easy life… to keep him happy. Marriage was about compromise, I thought, and I was determined not to go the way of my mother and her countless unions.

After he left for the second time that morning, I wiped away the blood that trickled down my thighs and then hobbled straight back to finish the remainder of the dishes in the sink. I needed to keep busy, or I knew I’d crumble.

My hands trembled as I rinsed the last glass and dried it off. I threw the dishcloth at the oven-holder and carefully flopped down on the couch. I was raw and tender, my thighs bruised and aching.

Grabbing the remote control from the coffee table, I switched the TV on and tucked my feet under my, legs trying to make myself as small as possible. Secure in a little ball. I’d take my mind off what had just happened and catch up with the shows that Eric wouldn’t allow me to watch in the evenings. He would always commandeer the little plastic device, securing it in his hand as he watched sports or documentaries after a hard day’s work. Resting my head upon the plump armrest, I flicked through the recorded shows and chose the latest episode of a light-hearted medical drama.

Burrowing deeper into the couch, I crossed my arms beneath my generous breasts and tried to enjoy the show. As doctors battled to save a dwindling life on the table, I felt my eyelids droop. Exhausted. The feel of warm breeze hitting a patch of skin sent my green eyes fluttering. Sunlight streamed through the window, its heat enveloping me as I felt my body slacken in defeat.

The strong pull of sleep overwhelmed me. Its invisible hand reached out to grip my arms and threatened to drown me. The sounds that vibrated through the TV suddenly became distant; the words the actors uttered faded into nothingness.

Eric’s face appeared before my sleeping eyes. His face showed an expression I had never seen before: fear. He called out to me, his voice gravelly and in pain. Desperate. Suffering and distress flickered across his face; his hand stretched out, but I was too far away to reach it. I felt a pang of anxiety and urged my feet to move. But the more I tried, the more it felt like my ankles were coated in molasses. I was unable to catch up to him, the sticky substance holding me back. I called out his name as his face vanished.

My body jolted awake, and I looked around the room frantically, trying to get my bearings. My heart pounded within my chest, my skin clammy from the nightmare. I sucked in as much air as I could, needing to calm the panic.

It was just a dream, I told myself, a bad one.

Shaking my hazy mind, I pushed back from the couch and sat with my head bowed between my knees. My fingers shook from the aftershock of the nightmare.

My head whirled with unspoken thoughts. Upon shaky legs I walked cautiously to the kitchen sink, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it up with tap water and reached for some paracetamol in hopes of easing some of the pain, especially my throbbing scalp, where Eric had ripped out a whole chunk of hair. I held myself up against the basin, scared my legs were about to give out under me, and tenderly touched the bare section of skin on the back of my head.

After draining the last of the water, the liquid quenching the dryness of my throat, I felt I could breathe again.

The echoing chime of the doorbell startled me, and the glass slipped from my hand and shattered in the porcelain sink. Angry shards sliced open my palm as I foolishly reached for it.

“Shit,” I cursed. Feeling the sting, I watched as a mesmerising crimson line appeared upon my hand. The doorbell rang again, more urgently this time, and then there was the sound of fists against the door.

“Coming,” I yelled, my voice croaking, hoarse as if I’d been at a football match… or screaming as if I’d been raped, a bitter voice in my head said.

Quickly, I wrapped a tea towel around my hand and made my way to the door.

Through the mottled privacy glass of the front door I could see two shadows on the other side. Unsolicited salesmen, no doubt coming to sell me triple glazing, or what was the new thing nowadays? Solar panels for the roof.

I used my uninjured hand to open the door and greeted the two men with a polite smile.

“Mrs Sara Chambers?” one of them asked.

Confused, the forced smile slipping from my face as I took in their official uniforms. “Yes? Is everything OK?”

The young bearded police officer ignored my question and continued with the script he’d probably spent time rehearsing in the squad car on their way over here. “Is your husband Eric Chambers?”

I nodded as my hands began to shake. “Yes, he is.” My heartbeat picked up, and my stomach began to churn. “What’s happened?” I asked the young officer, trying to the keep the quaver of my voice steady as I urged him to stop stalling, to get to the point. The moment I opened the door I already knew why they were here. The neighbours had obviously overheard my muffled screams, put a call in. I silently cursed them. It was between Eric and me; it was our business, no one else’s. Looking back at the officers I wondered if they’d arrested Eric, detained him perhaps?

The silent officer stepped closer, his foot on top of the concrete stoop, his hand providing a comforting touch, as his partner delivered his final line. He was a little older than the one speaking, obviously giving the lead to the youngster so he could get some experience in, I thought.

“I regret to inform you that Mr Chambers was in a car accident, Mrs Chambers.”

I looked from one to the other, unbelieving, their eyes waiting for my reaction.

“What? You mean you haven’t arrested him?” I said in disbelief.

“Why would we arrest you husband, Ma’am?”

I shook my head trying to clear the confusion that was building. “He’s only just left for work, he can’t have been in an accident.” Surely I hadn’t been asleep that long? He’d barely be on the dual carriageway by now. “No, you must have the wrong house, got the names mixed up…”