Getting the Full Experience

Getting the Full Experience

She forced herself to try and open her eyes. This proves to be a task so overwhelmingly dreadful and full of pulsating pain that for a moment she is convinced they won't open. During that brief moment, she musters the necessary will she needs to push through the agonizing anguish she currently feels covering the entirety of her face. She opens her swollen eyes just in time to witness another hammer fisted blow coming her way. Dropping downward, gaining inertia and connecting directly to the bridge of her nose.

Before she loses consciousness, she is able to commit the sound, site and feel of the blow to memory. The sound of her nose caving in; the bone shattering instantly into her nasal cavity, it sounds to her more like a loud snap rather than a crunch- like the snapping sound of a breaking twig as it is being stepped on. Accompanying this sound is the site of a crimsoned mist with a spray so thick, that a better description of the solidity of the massive spray would be to find its closest comparison. Perhaps the splash of an ocean wave as it crashes into the cliff bottom rocks, except the wanted is blood red. Both the snapping sound and the fountain of blood spewing from her nose syncs up exceptionally; impeccably in time- as if they are performing a duet and both hit their cues, perfectly.

Her line of site is forced into following the direction her head was bludgeoned into. She sees the spatter of blood spraying downward in the bottom half of her vision. The messy wave of red liquid starts its projectile journey at her face's original position; looking up at him as his fist makes its impacting connection to her face, marking the starting line. The trail of blood first hits his grimy denim jeans in soaking amounts from the knee area of his pants, then trails down the rest of pants and onto his steel toed work boots. Continuing and reaching the floor space that lay between him and her. The trail ceaselessly moves along the remaining portion of the floor before finally starting its drenching on her ruffled dress. Staring at the bottom, it makes a path covering her dress; climbing up her torso to her chest and approaches the finish line. The trail of blood ends at her collar. She had been hit so hard, her chin had violently connected against her collarbone, where it now lays stationary; blood puddling. Her head lays limply in this position during her last moments of consciousness.

In the few brief moments between the point of impact and her blacking out she had registered everything. She heard the sound of her nose breaking. She saw the blood which spewed from her face at such an alarming rate, the psi in its projection seemed to have been about the same as a garden hose on full blast. Just before losing consciousness, she felt the pain. It came crashing down onto her senses like a wave increasing in power; becoming a tsunami of suffering. Numb to the blunt force trauma at first, then crescendoing into unbearably new heights, giving her brand a new understating of the word "pain ". Seconds of time passed between him punching her to her the point she succumbed to unconsciousness, and in those moments she'd gotten the full experience. Only seconds. Just long enough for her to hear, see and feel the damage. In those seconds sat just enough suffering to allow her perception of time to slow to a dead crawl, forcing her to endure what felt to her like ten minutes of being beaten. A brutal ten minute beating inside of one last finishing blow.

Since they have been married, this is the fourth time he has knocked her out. The first three times, she was lights out before she even realized she'd been hit. She would just wake up from what had seemed like a dreamless sleep, lying on the floor. Wondering what had happened. She would spend a few dazed moments pondering the origins of the sore spots she felt. A black eye, a knotted head, a busted lip. A few moments would pass and she'd have the pieces of what had happened put together. She'd pick herself up and continue on with her day as if nothing had happened. She would let it go because she felt embarrassed by the outcome of the situation, also because the thought of confrontation scares her more than the thought receiving another beating from her darling husband. Not just confrontation with him, confrontation in general with anyone scares her. She has been unhealthily timid her entire life. So painfully timid that her ultimate fear in life has always been confrontation. Her conflict-aversion borders a complete phobia, so after the third time he'd knocked her out she just decided that this was just the way things were. She accepted that he would probably hit her again, she would be knocked out and that would be that. She would just wake up from a dreamless nap in a daze of confusion.

This time was different. Every single aspect of the situation had been different- not the beating part- everything else. She was aware of everything that was happening. She heard everything in full stereo quality. She saw everything in 3D High Definition. She felt everything as it all increased in brutal vivid detail, turning into indescribable pain. A pain so intense and insufferable that she'd lost consciousness. She'd suffered this entire cinematic experience from Hell in a matter of seconds before slipping into what had always been just a dreamless sleep. This time was different. This time the there was a dream. The entire experience carried over into her unconsciousness.

She lays collapsed and crumbled on the floor, eyes swollen shut. Her newly deformed nose isn't profusely bleeding any more, it has slowed to a steady trickling. Her physical body finally at peace. Her brain flashes images, frames of time passing at a dead crawl; pace unfaltering. He is still mercilessly beating her. Lengths of time pass by which seem to be days, then weeks. It's a non-stop, never-ending beating. Continuance; on and on. She never loses consciousness. She can only sob uncontrollably and scream in agony as her beating continues; and continues. She would never lose consciousness; the beating would never stop.

-James Scott