With him whoopin’
on me so much, I had no one to turn to. My momma and daddy were dead. Daddy
died from Tuba-culosis when I was six and Momma died from pneumonia the day
after my eleventh birthday. Mayor and Mrs. Smith let me take Momma’s place as
their maid for two years before I married off. At times, I wished the Mayor
hadn’t asked me to take that lemonade to Arthur. My life would’ve been simpler,
and especially the whoopins.
“Have you started
suppa?” He was still starin’ at the jar.
“No, suh, let me
finish this last bit of laundry and I’ll get to it.”
“What you mean you
didn’t start suppa?” His voice was loud like thunder.
“Arthur, I’ve been
cleanin’ all mornin’ and I had a lot of laundry to do. I’m servin’ soup for
suppa. It don’t take no time to cook it.”
Then I guess I got
him mad.
His eyes clicked
into a horrific rage and he lunged toward me. While I held the wet linen, he
raised his hand up to the afta’noon light and slapped me out the chair. Warm
blood oozed from my nose, and I crawled like a helpless dog to escape from his
tempa.
“Woman, I said get
my food!” he angrily snapped.
“Okay, okay,
please don’t!”
“Don’t what, you
stupid bitch? You don’t do shit ‘round here. It’s either suppa ain’t done in
time or the house ain’t clean enough…You suppose to do what I say!”
I kept scootin’ on
the rough, hardwood floor, still sore from his slap. He inched closer as he
rambled on about what I was not doin’ in the house. With three daughters, a
house to tend to, and bein’ a dressmaker for the high-society white women in
town, I worked just as hard as he did. But, in eyes his, he didn’t think so. He
called me lazy, even when doin’ our husband and wife things. Arthur said I was
the worst he’d ever had. I’m bad ‘cause he forced himself on me anytime he
wanted to. He got me hatin’ sex. Even the word makes me cringe.
Trapped between
the corner and him, the wall became my opened door to Hell. And there was no
getting’ away from smellin’ his whiskey breath. The scent was strong enough to
burn my nostrils and water my eyes. I curled into a ball to shield from his
first blow and his scent.
“Please, Arthur, I
promise to get suppa faster!”
He chuckled like
an evil man, ignorin’ my plea. My words never meant nothin’ to him. Then I felt
his strong hand grabbin’ a clump of my hair. He dragged me past the dusty
fireplace, and to the bedroom. His muscular frame roughly tossed my petite body
on the bed. The slaps weren’t nothin’ new. He was only warmin’ up.
I was on my back,
as he sprawled on top of me, starin’ at me; his eyes full of hatred. Arthur
carefully examined me from head to toe. Caressin’ my tear-soaked face, and then
runnin’ his hand down my chest, he clenched my dress in his fist and ripped it
open. My titties met the coolness of the drafty room, and my nipples stood rigid,
fearin’ his next move. I could feel his manhood rise through what was left of
my high-neckline dress. Then Arthur clenched his fist and punched into my warm
flesh. With each stingin’ blow, I wished those blows would just kill me.
He stopped.
“I’m sorry,” I
wept. “Please don’t hurt me no more. I tried to do better.”
He said nothing,
but reached in his trouser pocket and pulled out a bottle of whiskey to take a
quick swig. Lookin’ down at me with his devilish grin, he leaned closer to see
my tears blended with my beaten face.
In one swift
motion, my hands became his bondage on the bed, as he roughly kissed me. He
moved his lips down to my breast, suckin’ hard, as if he was tryin’ to regain
the milk. With my flesh against my homemade quilt, he did his dirty thing.
“Why do you like
me hurtin’ you?” he whispered, as he kept kissin’ me, his breath drenched with
whiskey. “You know I hate hurtin’ you.”
I couldn’t reply
to his false regrets. He always pretended to feel bad when he’d beaten and
violated me. Sometimes I sensed he wanted to cry. If he felt bad, then why did
his love had to hurt?
Lettin’ him do his
business, I just lay like a corpse in a casket. Abruptly, he flipped me over
like a ragdoll. It was the first time he’d done this and I didn’t know what to
expect. I was shiverin’ with panic when he ripped off the rest of my dress and
undergarments. I was stark naked, with my titties pressin’ against the quilt. His
manhood went into an unnatural hole that wasn’t fit for a person to take.
I screamed loud
enough for God to hear me.
“You act like a
stupid bitch, you gonna get treated like one!” He was pantin’ like an old
raggedy dog.
While he moved in
and out of my behind, I became numb. In front of me, I stared at the wall and
then gazed at my Bible on the nightstand. When
is God goin’ to take me away? Death
has to be better than this. Anythin’, mighty Lord, has to be!
© Imani Wisdom, 2012
