Day 5

"This is all fiction, you realize.  It is just fantasy, all of it," I say, trying to calm him down. His nostrils flare with anger and his eyes, dark and storming, glare with intensity. His hate is almost palpable.
"I don't believe anything you say. You whore. You libertine," he flicks epithets my way, some that sting, some that deflect. "Stop smiling, bitch."
The semi-smile, the one I wrap myself in when everything is too painful to actually look at head on, disappears. The unrelenting words that pummel my soul like fists only manage to provoke a deep nausea and a solitary tear of anger and defiance that wells over the edge of my trembling eyelids. He lunges forward, casting his shadow before him, imposing with a towering man-body that dwarfs my own.  I am meant to be afraid, but I am not. I don't care.
"Hit me, motherfucker," I taunt. I don't care, I don't want to care, I believe for a minute, hold my breath, wait. He backs away, violently wrenching himself and turning his back on me. He spins around again, this time pointing, jabbing his finger at me, connecting with the soft flesh just beneath my collar bone. I wince in pain, don't move back.
"You are disgusting," he spits at me, "fat, ugly, disgusting. No one would want you anyway."
"You're right," I whisper. "There isn't anyone, there never was, there never will be." I want to wrap myself up in layers of blankets, of skin, of silence. I just want him to go away. Stay away. He reaches for my hair, grabs it with his strong fingers and pulls. My chin juts up at a strange angle and he throws me down on the bed. My hands fly up to his hair, burrow in, wrap and tear with force. His knee presses down on my abdomen and I yank harder.
"Let go of me, whore," he growls through clenched teeth.
"Not until you let go of me," I respond, digging from deep inside of myself.
I wake up twisted in my sheets, there is nothing but the darkened room that used to be ours. I look around, disoriented. There is an alarm clock sounding, it is 4 am. I cast my eyes around, trying to parse the sound. My head feels foggy, stuffed with cotton. My mouth is dry and the whoosh of the furnace fills the silent air. I shiver. There is a small child-body curled around me, it burrows in for warmth.  The air smells of Eucalyptus and tar, sea salt and putrefaction. I disentangle myself, find the phone, turn it off, and I weep.