In the Night

4 • The Initial Strike

S U N N I

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Trigger warning

I woke up that morning in my own bed, with a stiff bandage around my head and an immense migraine pounding through my skull. I groaned as my eyes opened, the sunlight streaming in through the large window only adding to the pain in my head. Simon was nowhere to be found, which was a good thing and a bad thing. Good, because I didn't have to see his face first thing in the morning. Bad, because he could be anywhere, planning anything.

I sat up slowly, holding my aching head as I did so. I couldn't remember anything last night after Simon had thrown me across the room. I think I blacked out. I dragged my feet out from underneath the blanket and stood up, an instant pain spreading from the bottoms of my feet all the way to the top of my body. I glanced down and saw that my feet had been bandaged, as well. I winced as I adjusted to standing on them and made my way out of the bedroom, no other signs of Simon appearing as I wandered down the hall towards the kitchen. I was alone.

This wasn't the first time Simon had lost his temper with me. The first time he had physically hurt me was about two months after we had met. Before then, it was mainly just verbal abuse. I had accused him of sleeping with another woman after he had been gone all night and wouldn't tell me where he went. Simon had fumed at my allegations, and hurt me so badly that I had to pull out of a photoshoot that I was supposed to do that very next day. He left me with bruises all over my body, especially around my hips and ribcage.

After dealing with this first display of violence, I wasn't expecting him to act again so quickly. It's as if as soon as he attacked me, it flicked a switch in his brain. After the initial strike, it became a regular occurrence in our household. It happened at least once a day, maybe even more. You'd think that I'd be used to it by now, but I could never allow myself to think that it was just a normal part of our daily routine.

Walking into the kitchen, I found it empty. By glancing at the little clock on the wall, I found that it was just past midday. Meaning that Simon was at training and he wouldn't be back until three. I wrapped my thin robe around my body tighter and began making myself a cup of coffee. While it brewed, I began cleaning up the mess from last night. There were still shards of glass everywhere, and the coffee table was in pieces. I swept up all the remaining pieces of glass and stacked the broken table against the wall behind the trashcan, which I wold then take out with me in the morning when the garbage man came.

I sat in the kitchen, sipping my coffee. Simon had convinced me to quit modelling when we had started dating so that I could be home for him at all times, and he wouldn't have to keep track of my whereabouts. I know I was stupid to allow him to convince me into giving up my dream, but I was so in love with him back then that I paid no attention to my wants and needs, only his.

Once I finished my coffee I left it in the sink and made my way to the bathroom. I gasped when I saw my reflection in the mirror. My dark hair was disheveled, my pale skin littered with huge bruises and small cuts. What shocked me the most was the huge bruise I had on my left cheek. I gasped as I traced it lightly with my fingers. Sure Simon had been beating me for years, but he always made sure that none of the bruises would be visible. They always had to be covered by my clothes or makeup. They were usually on my ribs and hips, sometimes I was given huge ones that covered my entire back.

I carefully unwrapped the gauze that was strategically placed around my head, wincing as the material was pulled from the wound. There was a cut just along my hairline about half an inch long, dried blood sealing it closed for the meantime. It didn't appear to need stitches, which I was thankful for. I didn't need to be explaining to the doctors how my husband had thrown me head first into a glass coffee table.