Miss Guided

I bite down on my hand to quell the shrieks congregating in my throat, like teenage girls out shopping on a Saturday afternoon. Bile burns, cough hacks. Tears tumble out, my only drink for hours now. How much longer?

I bite down hard on my hand to stop the shakes that flash through my body. I can see the camera, mounted on the wall. It's recording me, this event. Will I live to watch it back?

Hands clasp my shoulders, nails digging. Flesh, the slapping of his movements. I concentrate on the swirls in the carpet. I put together the details of my surroundings: the red and ochre cloth of the makeshift curtains; the peach colour of the wood inlay on the wardrobe; the flecks of green dotted through the bedspread - the one I chose from that department store in town.

I bite down hard on my hand. I feel the scarf wrap around my neck. It tickles as it spreads, like tendrils of a plant. Tight in an instant, breath imprisoned in my lungs. I concentrate on the swirls in the carpet. Flesh slaps, bile burns. Cough hacks.

I bite down hard on my hand and suddenly it's over. I break down, weeping. My tears mixing with the blood snaking down my arm. My teeth are red. My look, horror. And then the cloth, warm water trickles to the small of my back, showering over my quivering hips and the crevice between my cheeks. Soothing. A hand runs over me, gently washing away the brutality of earlier.

I turn, kiss the lips of Oliver, murmur words of love.

I hold out my hand, bandages securing my blood beneath my skin. I kiss the lips of Oliver, let him wash me, clean me.

We've been together four years, for years. Years, we've been together. So long it seems like for ever. I love him.

Oliver stops the video. Speaks: something for the archives.

I kiss the lips of Oliver. I love him.

He says he loves me.