She tosses and turns under the covers knowing that he will return smelling of whiskey and cigarette smoke and cheap perfume but still she waits.
The clock ticks down to the hour, the very minute that the door creaks open and that intoxicated silhouette stumbles through in a drunken fury but still she waits.
She knows that she will be roused from her semi-conscious slumber with heavy blows from hands too cowardly to face another man but still she waits.
She knows that the very next morning she will have to apply heavy makeup to conceal the bruises that mar her delicate countenance and because of that, to be called a slut, a harlot, a slattern and worse but still she waits.
The moon rises to the cricket song of the midnight and the door groans like an old man whose back has given out and heavy footsteps break the harmony of the pitch-black. And she waits.
She cringes with anticipation of the brutality that is about to take place in her own home, the one place that she should be able to call sanctuary.
But she still remembers when his hands were gentle.
Women should not be treated in this manner. If you’ve any balls come and try me and the boys ya fuckin’ cunts.
