• Crunch.
    Was that her?
    No, she thought to herself. Fear no pain, or the consequences would be worse.

    Did she even know anything worse?
    Of course she did, everything always had something worse than itself. For every slap she imagined the children who died everyday of leukemia.
    For every punch she envisioned the slaughter houses filled with cattle.
    She wasn't dead yet, she had much to be grateful for.

    Crack.
    Her skull ached, she could feel her pulse radiating through her head. She thought of the pioneers on the Oregon trail.
    She wasn't deathly ill, dying in the unknown.
    She covered her face with her scarred hands, willing the pain to stop.

    This didn't hurt.
    No.
    It couldn't hurt. If it did, she was only giving into what the world wanted.

    The world wanted her to pay for what she hadn't done but she was holding her ground. She refused to be weak. They could not break her.

    A door slammed behind her and she could hear the sound of the fridge opening, bottles clinking together.

    She sat in the dark puddle that was slowly seeping across the floor beneath her. The walls had seen their fair share of her blood and tears. Seen their fair share of his anger.
    Dead men tell no tales. Although, those stories untold have always been the best.

    She drug herself off of the floor, removing her shirt swiftly to soak up the mess she had made. It was ironic how something so vital to life could seep into the fabric of society and stain the edges of humanity.

    She smiled as her hand brushed the dried blood away from her forehead. She had lived to die another day, and with all bones intact.
    Somewhat.

    It was a good day.