Old-fashioned violence.

"What are you thinking?" He asked.

It's a question we avoid in our house these days. It's just one of those phases in life, there is so much going on and nobody knows how to handle something we have no control over so we're just waiting for it to come to pass. Sometimes that is the best you can do in life, you can accept there is a limit to your control over it and just wait in quiet dread. In quiet dread, these days, we don't ask that question because we can see the answer in each other's eyes. Worry, is a constant companion.

But he asked.

Maybe because my pensive staring was making him anxious. It's interesting that often I feel like he is my life-raft and he feels like I am his; if he seems fine I can relax, and if I do, he can relax. Maybe he just asked to make sure the life-raft was available.

"Oh nothing," I told him, "I'm not worrying, I promise."

"If you're not worrying then what?" He asked, "Tell me what you're thinking about and don't say nothing."

I wasn't thinking of nothing but I'm not sure which one of my thoughts or feelings to trust of late. Everything feels like a trick; a trick to test the limits of resilience.

"I'm wondering how it would feel to get dragged into a cave," I said.

I don't know where that came from but I have to assume it's one of those things you didn't know you needed. Like coffee or a run after a stressful day. The words came out of my mouth, even though I could find no trace of them inside my head. I can't find anything in there lately; I can't seem to find that conviction that made me so sure of where I wanted to go in life. So it was strange to hear myself want. To hear myself ask. Bait. Invite.

"I don't have a cave..." He said walking towards me and grabbing me by the hair, "...but I can drag you."

I've been desperate in my search for that silence. The silence of violence. I thought for sure it would be better if I looked for it on the treadmill or on the mat. It's better for me to take it all out there. To leave it in the space I designed to let myself bleed safely but I was wrong. Being wrong has become second nature to me. I was wrong because nothing ever felt as much like home as being dragged across my house and tossed onto the bed. Nothing ever felt as much like home as his palm against my cheek.

I'm always surprised by how comfortably he will *really* slap me. I wonder if his confidence has to do with my face and all he has done to it over the years, or the fact that he has the skill to pop my jaw right back in place. He slaps me as hard as an angry man; I've never experienced that from a not-angry man. I wonder where that comes from. There are only two parts of me he is so confidently harsh with: my face and my cunt. I wonder if he has ever noticed that. Every other part of me warrants a toe in water but his fists jump right onto my face. As if he believes it is unbreakable.

But it isn't.

And as I felt my face swell to the point where he normally stops I wondered if he remembered that. I thought perhaps he did because he stopped for a minute and just looked at me. My range of vision was diminished but I could see him right in front of. It brought me some comfort, I think. Seeing that he still looked familiar even though ever sound out of his throat felt like a threat. Some nights he stops looking familiar, and then fear turns to terror.

Bur I wasn't really scared until he stopped.

Until he stepped away and watched me.

As he turned out the lights.

In the darkness, I don't know who we are. Who are any of us when no one can see? He wasn't scary until I could no longer see who he was.

And then.

There was just fear.

Just fear as he laughed and promised he wasn't done wrecking my face. He promised the cave was dark and even he couldn't see where he was going and so I was sure to get hurt. So hurt I would wonder why I ever started this.

Just fear.

As if felt myself slipping into the silence as his knuckles landed against my lips. Again and again. As he felt for them in the darkness. He didn't care that he missed his target often, and I wondered just how much force it takes to break a nose.

Just fear.

As I lay strapped in place and I felt my mouth swell and aquire a heartbeat of its own. And then another. As I felt us enter a place we'd never been before. A violent place of helpless need.

Just fear.

As I held my lip between my fingers to stop the uncontrollable trembling while he searched inside me with his cock, for meaning or just fourteen minutes of distraction from the knives that close in on us.

Just fear.

Until the lights came back on, and he looked me in the face again.

A momentary glance before he turned his head back. Aghast, at himself. Indignant, at my face. Maybe.

"Jesus, look at your face!" He exclaimed.

Smiling.

Faintly.

"Look at my face."

He looked. I looked. We looked. Violence is never without a victim and somehow we were lying for victim. Looking at the swollen, broken skin instead of the eyes brimming with oceans of quiet dread.

"Should I.." he asked hugging me, "..should I, get you some ice for that?"

"No."

Again, words that never took birth in my thoughts.

"No, I like it," I said with my broken mouth, "Let it hurt."