Pieces

She rubs her neck. It’s stiff and tender. She winces and breathes deeply; the smell of blood and smoke overwhelms her nose. Her eyes stare forward into the black night, the SUV speeding down a side street. Bloodshot eyes flick towards the rear-view mirror. They dart back and forth. Paranoia sets in. She focuses on her image in the mirror noting the kinks in her armor. Strands of blonde hair stick to the blood and tears on her face. An egg yolk bruise stretched across one side of her face. One of her eyes is swollen and puffy, red spots are flecked through their normal grey. She doesn’t need to look to know that her nose is broken, too. She feels it every time she takes a breath. Her grip on the steering wheel is tight. She can’t tell if its rattling is the ramshackle road or the nerves and fear building. Tears well up inside her and the question is no longer relevant. Her strength wavers and tears roll down her cheeks. The sobs begin and are uncontrollable. Her fingers fumble on the dash until they find the hazard lights and flick them on. She takes her foot off the gas and drifts to the side of the road. Her tender hands grip the gear shaft. Her nails are destroyed too, the blue polish chipped and cracked. She buries her mangled head in her hands and sobs.

He’d started the night angry, and to her, it seemed he was determined to finish it that way. The dinner she’d prepared for him had just ten minutes left when he’d walked in, barely an inconvenience she felt. He’d been complaining about the inequities of pay at work. Upset the fresh-faced kid with a degree was doing significantly less than him but was being paid double. Next, the police officer who had pulled him over on the way home. “Twenty over when nobody was around. Stinkin’ pigs hidin’ out in the woods.” His steel-toed boots clomped through the kitchen, and he swung open the refrigerator. She heard the glass bottles clink as he flung the door. Bending, he pulled two nippers of cinnamon whiskey out of the fridge and leaned against the counter. Silence lingered for a moment, and she felt something coming on. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on edge. Her breath slowed. “So, do I have to make dinner, too?” His voice was barely more than a whisper, but she made out each word. She slowly turned away from the pasta she was straining. Without raising her grey eyes from the floor, she responded. “Of course not. The meat is finishing up in the oven. It will be ready soon.” Neither of them made a sound. The silence was thick, and she began to feel her body tighten. “…I’m sorry…” He walked over to her and grabbed her wrist. “Oh, that’s okay. I’ll still be starving in 10 minutes.” His voice had risen then and his grip on her wrists tightened. Her eyes remained fixed on the floor. When he finally released her, her fingers had turned a dark shade of red. Bruising had already started. A tear rolled down her cheek at the latest brand of blood he’d left on her.

She begins to recover herself. As she sits there on the side of that Connecticut road, she feels a pit open inside her. One of those that swallow all the light and joy and leave only darkness and melancholy. This night would stick with her forever. Sometimes you can’t fix a thing that is broken. You can start a lawnmower with a shoestring for a while, but maybe you should just buy a new one. The same can be said for everything and everyone. Some people can’t be fixed after they’re broken. Pieces of people are given in every interaction, after which most are returned. Sometimes, people take a piece, and it never returns. Then suddenly, when you begin to forget the missing piece, another is gone. He had taken so many pieces she began to believe she wasn’t even real. First, he’d taken her privacy, then he’d taken most of her friends. When he’d finally shattered what remained, she was numb. The first slap hurt, but the second one hurt less. He’d always apologized, that made it hurt less. He’d given back a piece almost immediately. The first time he punched her, she woke up on the kitchen floor the next morning. He’d been drinking and she happened to walk across the TV. She thought back to these moments and the breaking down of who she was, the erasure of her college degrees, and her hobbies. The exit of her immediate family who “couldn’t watch what she was becoming anymore” The acceptance of her life. She felt a deep pit inside her grow so large it might consume her. She looked into the rearview mirror once more, and this time her eyes lingered on the package sitting on the backseat.

He’d downed both of those tiny bottles before they sat to eat, and a few more were consumed in conjunction with a beer. She stood to do the dishes. As she gathered them, he huffed and puffed. She walked towards the counter and began to set down the plastic plates. “Hur- Hurry up woulda?” A cup slammed against the wall behind her. It rattled around and landed in the cast iron pan with which she’d cooked the meat. She heard the chair scrape against the floor. She slowly put the plates down. He began to come towards her, she could hear him stumble as he crept up to her. She closed her eyes and her breathing slowed. He was right on top of her now. She could smell the alcohol mingling with the sweat on his body. Her stomach turned at the thought of him. He began to rub her shoulders, her eyes snapped shut. He slid his hands down her shoulders and onto her chest. Instinctively she shrugged away in discomfort. She hadn’t meant to; she’d intended to allow him to do what he wanted. She felt his grip tighten on her breast and she knew she’d made a massive mistake. He spun her around and began to berate her. “IS SOMETHING WRONG, HONEY?” His hot spittle covered her face as he screamed at her. She shook her head quietly. He pushed her back against the sink angrily. “It sure doesn’t seem like nothing is wrong, you bitch.” Her breath was trembling. “I’m sorry, you just scared me…” He laughed maniacally now. “That was nothing scary. Now you should be scared.” She was.

As she approaches her destination, the hole that was swallowing her begins to fill. Little pieces of her. The night outside is turning into dawn. Oranges and purples of the sunrise crack through the dark rain clouds in the sky. She squints at the sudden light. She has been driving longer than she thought. The rain was not letting up. Her eyes dart to the package in the back seat. The package is large and square. She’d wrapped it in brown paper and tied it with twine. She couldn’t place why she’d done that, but sometimes when a person is pushed too far eccentricities exist just past darkness. She welcomes the beginning of the day with a small smile. The pieces he had taken start falling back into place as the journey winds to a close. They would never fill in properly, a cup broken and glued is still cracked, but hope begins to fill them. All it takes is a triumph for someone to see their true light. An overweight person finally breaking a long bout of depression after losing a few pounds. A baseball player in a slump cranking a home run after a hitless drought. Or, in her case, a woman who finally breaks free of an oppressive force. As she eyes the package sitting neatly on the back seat, she smiles and finally feels free. The last few pieces of herself snap into place. Maybe today she’ll call her sister.

He swung at her hard. The first salvo was his hand slamming against the side of her face. His other hand followed with a tight fist. It struck her in the nose, and she felt the bones explode and the blood begin to rush. She screamed but did not fall. She raised her eyes to his and his fist stopped in the air. Her bloodshot eyes met his for the first time that night. Her grey eyes stared defiantly into his blue. They lingered there until he swung again. This time she fell. She slammed against the counter before she fell to the floor. The spaghetti pot and the plastic plates followed her down. They clattered on the floor around her like a cosmic round of applause. He laughed as she fell. He thought she had been beaten. For a moment she agreed. She prepared for more punches, but he broke the pattern and kicked her right in the stomach. Her body lurched and the dinner she forced down her throat threatened to come right back out. The force of the kick sent her slamming into the cabinets under the sink. He turned away towards the fridge and cracked another beer. He took a few sips. She heard the clomping of the boots get closer. She tried to crawl away, to escape the man she’d thought she loved. She didn’t get far before she saw his boots and knew he was standing right over her. He reached down and yanked her up by her hair. Her arms flailed uselessly. She began to give up, ready to slip into unconsciousness. Her eyes snapped desperately to the counter. He threw her and she fell to the counter. He took a step towards her, then one more.

She parks her car on an isolated bridge. She’d found this place once. She’d come here for comfort when he was too drunk to care where she was. She hoped this would help fill in the cracks for her. She steps out of the car and slides the brown package off the seat. She smiles as she walks towards the edge of the bridge and pitches it over the side. She makes her way back to the SUV, whistling a tune. She opens the trunk and begins to whistle louder. It is lined with paper-wrapped boxes of different shapes and sizes. She grabs another box. Another box wrapped in paper and tied with twine. She again feels the weight of it. Turning the box in her hands, she carried it to the bridge and pitches it off the side. She makes the short walk repeatedly. Box after box.

Everyone takes a piece of someone in any interaction. He’d taken pieces of her for years. She had no intention of returning the pieces of him.