𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 | 𝟏𝟖+

1

Silverware crashes to the floor. The spice rack goes flying, sending little glass jars clattering across the counter. Anything my hands touch seems to slip through my fingers as I frantically rush around the kitchen, trying to get dinner on the table.

Fifteen more minutes.

My hands shake as I try to chop the vegetables, and I end up slicing my finger. I hiss in pain, watching the blood mix with the tomato juice on the cutting board.

I hear the front door open then slam shut.

He barges into the kitchen, beer bottle in hand. His bloodshot eyes sag like old curtains. Greasy, thinning, gray hair frames a face mottled red from rage.

His eyes bulge as flecks of spittle fly from his mouth with each shouted word. "CATHERINE!" he yells, drunkenly slurring. "Why isn't—why isn't dinner prepared?! You know what's expected! A good Mormon wife keeps things in order! What would the brethren say if they knew you can't even handle a...SIMPLE MEAL?!"

"I-I apologize, sir, I tried to have it ready, but I–"

He backhands me across the face, the sharp crack of his palm against my cheek echoes in my ears. The force of the blow sends me stumbling back, knocking over the pots and pans scattered across the counter. He grabs the dinner plates, still empty, and hurls them at my feet. They shatter, sending shards of ceramic across the kitchen.

"Useless!" he shouts, throwing forks and spoons, and whatever he can get his hands on at me. "Absolutely useless!"

I back away, trying to put some distance between us, but he keeps coming. I end up cowering in the corner, my arms raised to shield my face. I flinch as Lymon's hand tightens around his beer bottle, sure he's about to hurl it right at my head. But then I see him pause, his eyes flicking down to the half-full bottle. Of course. God forbid he wastes a perfectly good beer.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of my little girl, Penny, and my sister wives watching from the living room. Penny's face is pale, her eyes wide with terror. She shouldn't have to see this all the time. None of them should.

But they're frozen, just like I am. And they wouldn't dare intervene. They know better. We all do.

Lymon's still raging, his face growing even redder somehow. "You-you think you can disrespect me like this?! Disrespect God, like this? In my house?!"

I'm whimpering now, tears streaming down my face. I just want it to stop. I just want to grab Penny and run, far away from here, far away from him.

But I can't. So I stay huddled in the corner, praying that he'll tire himself out soon.

"Clean up this mess," he snarls, gesturing at the broken dishes and wasted food. "And it better be spotless by morning."

With that, he stumbles out of the kitchen and up the stairs. A moment later, I hear the bedroom door slam, rattling the windows.

Penny comes running to me as soon as he's gone, "Mama!" she cries, throwing her arms around me. "Are you okay, mommy?"

I hug her tight, mustering up a weak smile. "I'm alright, baby," I whisper, even though I'm anything but. "It's going to be alright."

Susanne, my sister wife, comes over and gently helps me to my feet. She grabs a clean dishcloth and presses it to my bleeding lip. "Oh, Catherine, I'm so sorry," she sighs, her eyes full of sympathy.

I shake my head, wincing as the cloth touches the cut. "It's not your fault, Susanne." I tell her.

It's my fault. If I had dinner ready, he wouldn't have blown up like that. It's always something, though. Too slow, too sloppy, too this, too that. But after the hundredth beating you get sick of it, and I can't keep living like this–I need out, and I need out tonight.