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