the crack of his hand against her cheek propels her backward. her head snaps unconvincingly to the right, her temple smashing into the iron knob of the kitchen cabinet. it takes mere seconds to occur, but years, it seems, for her to slump to the tiled floor. a wave of alarmingly red pain washes over her. shes sways disturbingly, her hands flailing to find something to hold her upright. the wave finally overcomes her, her body falling to the floor.
from this angle, everything is white. everything is blank. from this angle, thought--they ride the tide of unconsciousness, falling faster with her toward blackness.
someday....my....someday...was that something else...what was it...
she fights the blackness, pulling her hands up under her chest, preparing to lift herself off the floor. all she can see is his scuffed, leather dress shoes. pacing, pacing, pacing. and then they stop. the red, searing wave is replaced by the familiar feeling of nausea. she clenches her jaw, locking her teeth, forming a barricade. her stomach jerks, the spasms coming faster. she feels the powerlessness of her body, but she fights anyway.
don't vomit. don't vomit. don't vomit. don't vomit. don't. don't. don't....
he is moving again. his feet come closer. he is shouting, but she can't understand what he is saying. she can't look away from his shoes. from this angle, everything is blank. from this angle, his words do less damage. he finds her unresponsiveness infuriating. he draws back his right foot. she blinks. before she can tell her body to move, to shrink, to disappear, the tip of his shoe digs into her abdomen, forcing her to curl inward, all the air contained within her body escaping through her mouth in a guttural cry that drowns his bellowing insults.
she reaches for something, her hands slipping, grappling with the sticky cleanness of the floor. there is nothing to grasp. she gives up, placing her cheek to the floor, trying to find the air to fill her lungs again.
oh god. oh god. oh god. please. please. please stop. please. stop. stop. stop.
"get up. we are going to be late." he walks away.
she watches his shoes walk away. as he leaves the kitchen, his shoes almost look polished. almost.
slowly, she begins to move. it takes more convincing on her part every time--to tell the arm to bend, to place the hand on the floor, to push her upper body up, to move her feet inward... finally, she is standing, her hands shaking, her breath still coming out in ragged gasps. she carefully smooths her shirt and tucks her hair behind her ears. these, the actions of normalcy that helps maintain some sense sanity.
already the moment has passed. she will get dressed. they will not be late.
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