She has a small back. It curves smoothly like water over stones. He has a small mind, its corners darker than the midnight zone. He comes home on a Monday. He drenched in rain, her in sweat.” What will he do tonight” she thinks. Heavy boots stomp towards her, and she steps back, holding her breath. The husky voice says,” Where’s dinner?” She fumbles to the porcelain stove but feels a force direct her journey downward. The sudden spinning in her head dissociates her reality. Calloused hands hold her head to the ground as she thinks the unthinkable. She pleads and cries, but no mercy comes to her. Instead, a kick to her side nauseates her fragile frame—brown hairs web in front of her eyes. The monster in the kitchen repeats his earlier sentiment. In a moment, she grabs the serving for her master and apologizes for her mistakes. He goes to his spot on the couch and sees a strange mark. Immediately, his mind helixes into something scary. He calls to his slave, and she says, “what honey.” He points to the spot. She feels her eyes burn and her stomach churn. Dropping to her knees, water dripping from her anguished face, she tries once more to reason with her husband. Desperation screams in her timid voice. Then came the black. As she fades in and out, one thing is constant. Pain. Strike after strike left the wife in bloody hopelessness. 

Later that night, the woman is in the middle of her kitchen chores when something stares her in the face, hope. Hope was in sight. There was one way for her to reach this place. She looks at one hand, drops the accompanying rag, and looks to the other hand. A bottle of hope was in her hands. She used the last of her strength and twisted the plastic cap off. At once, it was gone. She could not go back. As she feels her heart stop, tears fall rampant on her injured face. She says goodbye.