Salt.

The woman pulls herself into the corner, trying to make herself as small as possible. Her eyes are staring, dead. An ugly, poisonous bruise is forming on the side of her face. Her mouth is swollen and split. The bottom lip has almost been torn off. There is blood everywhere. Over her face, her arms, her shirt.

There is movement and sound in the room. There are people here. The police. How did they get here? The neighbours must have called them. Again.

She doesn’t really see the people. To her they are just shadows flickering across her vision. Their voices are blurred, indistinct, as if under water. The red and blue lights of the emergency vehicles invade the kitchen, dancing maniacally around the walls, adding to the surrealism. All part of the same horrific dream. Maybe it’s a new nightmare? Impossible to tell these days, where one ends and another begins.

A policeman leans down towards her, attempting to talk to her. He reaches out to her. The woman whimpers, and tries to squeeze even further into the corner. The policeman moves away, deciding to leave it to the ambulance attendants.

Salt.

That’s what has set him off this time. She’s forgotten to put it on the table, and he has to get up and get it himself. He starts screaming at her, telling her how useless she is. Calling her names. Nasty, foul names. He pours salt into his hand and throws it in her eyes. So she "doesn’t forget again". To drive home his point he snatches her by the hair and throws her across the kitchen. He attacks her as she lies on the floor. Kicking at her body and head. Putting all his weight behind each swing. He’ll teach her! She tries to protect her face with her arms. A sickly crunch as the steel-cap smashes her wrist.

After aiming a couple more kicks at her head he bends down and grabs her by the throat. He squeezes. Hard. Then he starts to pick her up, his vicious fingers digging into her neck. She is choking. He raises his other hand and makes a fist. The wedding ring sparkles obscenely as it catches the light. He smashes his fist into her face.

The police and ambulance workers jump with fright as the woman screams and screams and screams.

After what seems like hours, the woman is led gently across the kitchen floor by a female ambulance attendant and a policewoman. There is a blanket draped over her shoulders. She is barely able to walk. She is sobbing miserably.

They guide her past the group of men standing near the table. Detectives and uniformed officers. They are talking in low voices. Every now and then one of them looks down at the body on the floor. The body of a man, his face and torso slashed. The snapped blade of a carving knife is sticking out of his chest, just where the heart would be.

"Salt" © Writing The Image 2007/Peter Stone 2003

Arrival

The woman looks nervously out the window. Oh, God! In just a few minutes ...

The pilot has announced they have begun their descent. Soon the plane will come down through the clouds, and the woman will be able to see the city. His city. Where he lives.

She shuts the book that she has brought with her to read on the plane. The book that she has stared at but hasn’t read a single word since taking off several hours before. Every time she makes the attempt, her thoughts run madly to him.

She can’t believe she is doing this. What on earth has possessed her to fly across the country to be with a man she has only spoken to on the phone, and on the computer? She thinks about the first time they "saw" each other in the chat room. How they felt immediately drawn to each other. How they started chatting and found they had so much in common. How, at the end of that fist time chatting, she felt, somehow, a little more alone than usual, and couldn’t wait until she spoke to him again.

Naturally things lead to e-mails and phone calls. Long phone calls. Conversations so deep and personal. She had felt in awe at allowing a complete stranger share so many of her secrets. Her hopes. Her desires. Her fears. They explored all there was to explore on the phone. They got to know each other so well. The next step was a foregone conclusion.

Let’s meet.

Now, after a lot of planning and soul searching, she was in a few minutes going to be in his arms. It’s what she has wanted for a long time, especially these last months. But there is still nervousness. And doubts. What if he doesn’t like the way I look? What if we don’t get on together in person like we do on the phone? What if? What if?

The plane has landed. The woman finds herself walking up the covered walkway toward the arrivals lounge. In just a few seconds reality will replace the fantasy. The door looms before her.

Is my hair okay?

Ten more steps.

Is he here?

Five more steps.

Will I recognise him?

One step.

Oh, God! Deep breath. Here goes ...

She steps into the arrivals lounge.

"Arrival" © Writing The Image 2007/Peter Stone 2003