Page 27 of Conviction
“Don’t Nina, just don’t. I know you like it rough. I know it,” he says through gritted teeth. He grabs my face again and stares angrily into my eyes.
“Is this how he fucked you? Is it?”
I don’t know this person, I’ve never seen Marcus like this. My heart is racing now, but for all the wrong reasons. His mouth smashes against mine, and he bites down on my bottom lip. I start to panic and dig my heels into the mattress, trying to push myself off his lap and away from the bed, trying to escape. He grabs me by the throat and squeezes, hard. He’s bigger, stronger than I am, and I don’t stand a chance when he pushes me to my back and forces his hips between my legs.
“Don’t you fucking dare, don’t you ever try and run away from me. You fucking stay here and you take it. You take what I’m giving you, you little slut.”
I pull at his hair, claw at his back, but it just seems to spur him on. He captures my wrists and roughly holds my hands against my sides and restrains them there.
He’s fully hard now and has no trouble forcing himself inside me. I cry out in pain at the stinging and burning sensation. Marcus isn’t that big, but my muscles are clenched tight and the intrusion unwelcome. I start to cry. I’m angry more than anything but also humiliated.
“Marcus, please, what are…? Why are you doing this?”
“Don’t Nina. Just stop pretending you don’t love this. Is this how he fucked you? Is this how you got fucked by your rock star bit of rough?”
“Oh my God, why are you saying this? What the fuck is wrong with you, Marcus?”
“Shut up! Shut up! Just shut the fuck up and take it,” he shouts. Spit is frothing at the corners of his mouth and hanging from the middle of his lip. He frees my wrists, and I try desperately to get away from him, but start to see dots in front of my eyes as he squeezes my throat tighter this time. I’m gripped by panic for a few seconds, but then adrenaline kicks in and I make one last-ditch attempt to buck him off me and push him away. I give it everything, pulling at his hair, trying to claw at his face. He grips my wrists in his hands again, holding them at the side of my head. I try to roll from side to side. Panic, hurt and anger build inside me all at once. This isn’t happening, my husband wouldn’t do this to me. I lean forward and bite down on his shoulder. He stops his brutal thrusts, that drive him deeper inside of me, and I think it’s all over until his fist comes down viciously and he punches me in the jaw.
My head spins, but I don’t pass out. I do stop fighting though and lay utterly still. He thrusts a few more times, grunts then stills.
I can taste blood in my mouth where I must’ve bitten my tongue or my cheek. I remain motionless for a few more moments, trying to gather my thoughts. I open my eyes when I hear Marcus start to snore, his weight pressing down on me. I move my hand to cover my mouth before a sob can escape and wake him.
It takes a few attempts, but I eventually manage to manoeuvre myself out from underneath him. On shaky legs, I leave him snoring, face down on the bed and head for the bathroom down the hallway. I don’t even make it to the toilet. Instead, I throw up in the shower, then turn it on, rinse away the mess that I’ve made and step inside and cry like I’ve never cried before. I cry not for what’s just happened, but for every day I’ve spent wasting away in this miserable marriage.
My mind is racing. I just can’t make sense of what’s just taken place. In my own home. My own bed. With my own husband. What would force him to behave like that? What could’ve triggered that kind of behaviour? Whatever it was, nothing justifies him treating me like that.
Nothing.
He hit me.
He fucking hit me.
I start to cry again, the full realisation of what my husband just did, suddenly overwhelming me.
I stay in the shower for ages, letting my tears flow while I scrub the smell and all traces of him from my body. I try to think straight. What should I do? Should I leave? Now, or in the morning? Should I give him a chance to explain, to apologise? What if he wakes up and does it again?
I suddenly panic that the sound of the shower might wake him up. I jump out and wrap myself in a towel, still shaking uncontrollably. I go down to the laundry and pull out a hoodie and my hammer style yoga pants from the dryer. I head back upstairs and get my phone from beside the bed. Marcus is still face down snoring. I stand and watch him for a few seconds. He looks like an angel in his sleep. His blond curls need cutting, He never usually lets it get this long, but he’s been in court every weekday and on the golf course most weekends.
I wipe my tears away on the back of my hand and walk out of the room. I call Duchess from the kitchen and grab my keys. I jump in my car and drive straight to Sophie’s.
I sit in my parkedcar, outside Sophie’s flat and attempt to organise my thoughts. I don’t remember the drive here. I don’t remember getting dressed, collecting Duchess, or picking up my keys. I look down at my dog, curled up in the footwell on the passenger side.
“What just happened, Duch? Why did he do that?” I wrap my arms around myself and try to stop shaking. My throat and chest ache as sobs wrack through me. Duchess puts her head up on the seat and looks up at me with her brown puppy dog eyes.
“What did I do? What could’ve happened to make him do that to me, hey girl?”
I sit in my car for a few more minutes trying to calm myself down. I have a key to Sophie’s place. I actually used to live here with her before I moved in with Marcus. It’s above our very first salon we opened together. I look up at the windows and considering the time, I’m not surprised that there are no lights on.
Sophie and I had been out to a wine bar after work tonight. I’d only had a couple of glasses as I had to drive home. Sophie had polished off a second bottle because she just had to walk across the street to get home. She’d probably passed out cold as soon as she got in, so I didn’t want to let myself in and startle her.
I give Duchess a rub around her neck and ears and take a few calming breaths before pressing call against Sophie’s name on my phone. It rings out three times before she finally picks up on my fourth attempt.
“Neen?” she croaks out in her sleepy voice.
I cry.
I try not to, but I can’t seem to control myself.
