we met on the day trip.”
“And?” “It’s terrible, but I hope they’re suffering too!” Matt asks, “They deserve it. Plus, you haven’t even thought of the ultimate silver lining.”
“Which is?” “We might be the only people who come home from vacation weighing less than when we started.”
CHAPTER TEN
February 14, 7:24 P.M.
A woman sits on the plush couch, staring at the muted television. She barely notices as the screen plays nothing but the cheerful loop of the hotel channel. On perhaps the seventh repetition, she moves stiffly across the room to look at her reflection in the mirror above the mini bar.
With the exception of a bruised lip – only partially covered in MAC’s Hot Tahiti – her face is lovely. Lush lips, classic nose (although slightly off center having been broken once), blonde hair tumbles limply around her shoulders. She unbuttons her long sleeved black silk shirt and places the expensive garment carefully on the bed. He is clever enough to keep the injuries to a place where no one will see them. Looking in the mirror, she sees the ugly purple bruise on her upper arm from last week fading to a sickly yellow.
He gave her that memento when dinner was five minutes later than he requested.
Turning around, she seems to finally notice her surroundings. The sun has set. On the luggage stand sits her Louis Vuitton duffle and matching purse. The contents – the sum total of what she has in this world, do not amount to much. Some clothes, no pictures and all the jewelry he’s given over the years. These gems were meant as his misguided apologies. In her bag, scrimped and saved over months, she’s managed to hoard close to two thousand dollars from the weekly ‘allowance’ he gave her.
She’s been in denial for years, maybe even since the beginning of their relationship. What had started as a fairy tale is now ending in tragedy. He was rich, handsome and through it all she believed she didn’t deserve him. Until recently, the verbal attacks and physical abuse all came from the fact he was somehow better than she was. Feeling rather like a terrible cliché, she always believed domestic abuse to be some trait associated with lower economic classes. Prior to meeting him, she believed once your net income was over six figures that problems became different – more complicated and not as shallow as domestic abuse. And yet, their problems were as real as anyone else’s. She thinks back to a few hours ago – already it feels like weeks.
Tonight was supposed to be a new start, something special.
Betsy had booked the room as a surprise for him. Having gone to school with Dawn, the day shift manager, she had been able to negotiate a good deal on a night that was, by definition, guaranteed to be more expensive than others. With limited access to funds, it was only a forgotten credit card she had left over from her student days that she had been able to secretly secure the room.
He had come home from work. She already had her bag packed for the night. She knew from his lack of calls and short texts during the day that he was going to be in a bad mood. She had come to recognize the signs. He was under stress. It was someone else’s fault. Always.
She had a drink waiting for him, gripped in trembling hands. An offering to appease him. Whiskey, neat. Waterford crystal. No ice.
“How was your day?”
“Gupta fucked up the reports again.” The response is spat out as he grabs the drink out of her hands. He does not thank her.
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” She knows from previous incidents that trying to reason or side with the person in question will only lead to a painful experience and horrible accusations. It is best she keeps her answers limited, submissive and as apathetic as possible.
On his way to the immaculate den, he trips on a rug.
“And?” “It’s terrible, but I hope they’re suffering too!” Matt asks, “They deserve it. Plus, you haven’t even thought of the ultimate silver lining.”
“Which is?” “We might be the only people who come home from vacation weighing less than when we started.”
CHAPTER TEN
February 14, 7:24 P.M.
A woman sits on the plush couch, staring at the muted television. She barely notices as the screen plays nothing but the cheerful loop of the hotel channel. On perhaps the seventh repetition, she moves stiffly across the room to look at her reflection in the mirror above the mini bar.
With the exception of a bruised lip – only partially covered in MAC’s Hot Tahiti – her face is lovely. Lush lips, classic nose (although slightly off center having been broken once), blonde hair tumbles limply around her shoulders. She unbuttons her long sleeved black silk shirt and places the expensive garment carefully on the bed. He is clever enough to keep the injuries to a place where no one will see them. Looking in the mirror, she sees the ugly purple bruise on her upper arm from last week fading to a sickly yellow.
He gave her that memento when dinner was five minutes later than he requested.
Turning around, she seems to finally notice her surroundings. The sun has set. On the luggage stand sits her Louis Vuitton duffle and matching purse. The contents – the sum total of what she has in this world, do not amount to much. Some clothes, no pictures and all the jewelry he’s given over the years. These gems were meant as his misguided apologies. In her bag, scrimped and saved over months, she’s managed to hoard close to two thousand dollars from the weekly ‘allowance’ he gave her.
She’s been in denial for years, maybe even since the beginning of their relationship. What had started as a fairy tale is now ending in tragedy. He was rich, handsome and through it all she believed she didn’t deserve him. Until recently, the verbal attacks and physical abuse all came from the fact he was somehow better than she was. Feeling rather like a terrible cliché, she always believed domestic abuse to be some trait associated with lower economic classes. Prior to meeting him, she believed once your net income was over six figures that problems became different – more complicated and not as shallow as domestic abuse. And yet, their problems were as real as anyone else’s. She thinks back to a few hours ago – already it feels like weeks.
Tonight was supposed to be a new start, something special.
Betsy had booked the room as a surprise for him. Having gone to school with Dawn, the day shift manager, she had been able to negotiate a good deal on a night that was, by definition, guaranteed to be more expensive than others. With limited access to funds, it was only a forgotten credit card she had left over from her student days that she had been able to secretly secure the room.
He had come home from work. She already had her bag packed for the night. She knew from his lack of calls and short texts during the day that he was going to be in a bad mood. She had come to recognize the signs. He was under stress. It was someone else’s fault. Always.
She had a drink waiting for him, gripped in trembling hands. An offering to appease him. Whiskey, neat. Waterford crystal. No ice.
“How was your day?”
“Gupta fucked up the reports again.” The response is spat out as he grabs the drink out of her hands. He does not thank her.
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” She knows from previous incidents that trying to reason or side with the person in question will only lead to a painful experience and horrible accusations. It is best she keeps her answers limited, submissive and as apathetic as possible.
On his way to the immaculate den, he trips on a rug.
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