Cycle

A story of domestic terror.

As the afternoon wanes her anxiety waxes. The hour of HIS arrival draws near. She can hear the clock ticking in the kitchen, minute chasing minute in rapid-fire staccato. Her tension rises, her heart quickens. And then she hears the key turning in the lock and the front door opens.

HE is home.

She rushes over to arrange HIS coat as HE takes it off. HE casts a seemingly cursive glance around, but she knows HE is profoundly examining the state of the house.

Her daily hell has begun.

HE draws her attention matter-of-factly to a spot of dust on the living-room table. Hardly the words out of HIS mouth, she is on her knees wiping the table clean with intense concentration. Her heart races as if she has just finished a one hundred-meter dash.

HE takes a seat by the kitchen counter saying nothing. HE does not have to. She knows exactly what HE expects. She places the newspaper on the counter, open at the international-affairs section. Coffee has been ready for the past hour and she pours HIM a cup to HIS liking: three-quarters coffee, one-quarter milk, with one lump and a half of cane sugar. She is very careful in measuring out the proportions. To err may be human, but HE is not divine — HE never forgives.

She watches HIM intently as HE sips HIS coffee calmly and reads the paper. Not out of love for this demon. No. She must be constantly alert and play her part, a part in a play written by Satan himself. God? She has long ago ceased to believe in him; for her, there is only HIM.

As HE turns over the last page of the newspaper, she utters the first words of the evening. “So how was your day, darling?” she says in a submissive voice.

“Fine,” HE answers. “They asked me today to be the next department head. I said yes.”

HE is a physics professor of international renown. Everyone grovels at HIS feet. There has even been talk lately of HIS becoming a prime candidate for the Nobel prize. They all think HE is the most wonderful, most brilliant, funniest, most compassionate man. Only she knows the truth: if HE is any master at all — it is master of disguise. HE is devil-sent, or, maybe, the devil himself.

“Congratulations darling,” she tries to muster a cheerful tone. “You deserve it, really.”

“What do you mean deserve?,” HIS voice rises alarmingly. “Are you implying that I’m unworthy? Why you good-for-nothing bitch — ”

The first blow of the evening lands on her arm. Always calculating, HE never hits her above the neck. Oh no, that would leave marks for everyone to see. And HE is no fool — HE is a genius, in fact.

“No darling,” she says, rising with effort from the floor. “I just meant that you’re the best they have. They’d be idiots to select anyone else.” HE seems satisfied with her explanation.

HE walks into HIS study, shutting the door behind HIM. Her heart settles down slightly. She has earned a two-hour reprieve — until her father arrives for the customary Friday dinner.

She has been working on dinner all day long — anything short of perfection is punishable. If she succeeds, if HE is content, she stands a chance of earning the highest award of all: the right to go to bed unmolested and remain so until morning. If she fails HE will use the belt. Mercilessly. And then, if she does not faint, or even if she does, HE will rape her. HIS being her husband does not make this anything else. It is not lovemaking (the mere thought of love raises a bitter smile on her lips). It is not even sex. It is pure, unadulterated rape.

At least I am barren, she thinks. The torture stops with me. HE will have no children to devastate — her small revenge. Ironic, she thinks, how being barren can be a gift. Even HE can do nothing about that, as much as HE rapes me.

Her father arrives exactly on time, as usual. He has been looking somewhat frail lately, she thinks. He seems to have turned into an old man over the past year.

They sit in the living room chatting amicably. Her father sips his usual gin and tonic while she drinks orange juice. No alcohol for her — she cannot afford to get drunk. It could cost her dearly.

At precisely seven-thirty HE joins them in the living room. She rises immediately, knowing that her presence is no longer necessary — or wanted.

She returns to the kitchen to survey the preparation of the meal. My God, she cries inwardly in horror. Her worst nightmare has come true: the meat is burned. She had forgot to turn off the oven half-an-hour ago. Dinner is beyond saving.

So is she.

Meekly, she walks into the living room and explains to the devil and her father what has happened. She tells them she will go out immediately and procure a nice take-out meal. Her father tries to comfort her, murmuring that it is okay and that these things happen. HE says nothing, but the look in HIS eyes sends chills up her spine. She reads violence in them; she reads inferno.

As she drives to the restaurant her thoughts wander to those early days. How charming he was. How intelligent. How loving. Has it been only five years? It seems more like a thousand. Man-kind, she thinks sardonically, what a cruel joke.

Divorce. How often she has thought of it. But she knows HE would kill her as soon as she started the process. Kill her — pure and simple. And HE would get away with it too — HE is a genius, after all. The super-smart guy I fell in love with, she thinks bitterly.

She has no family, just her father — and he is no match against HIM. Her father is much too weak. Flee? She has no money of her own since HE reigns supreme over all their fiscal affairs. And if she fled HE would hunt her down like a wounded animal. Too weak, she thinks, I’m too weak even to take my own life.

Returning to the house with the warm packages, she sets the table hurriedly and serves dinner. Delayed by half-an-hour. As they eat she can feel the steely undertone of HIS voice whenever HE addresses her.

Her father, totally ignorant of her plight, of the tragedy unrolling before his eyes, rambles endlessly. She pays no attention to the conversation, has not the slightest idea what they are talking about. Her father having been HIS doctoral advisor, they may well be discussing physics. But her mind is already living the future, the very near future, when her father will have left and HE will begin the punishment. Her castigation. Her nemesis.

Dinner over, she sets about immediately to return the kitchen to an immaculate state. Maybe that will earn her a reduced sentence. Not a total pardon — she is not that naive. But perhaps HE will then content himself with just the beating. Perhaps she will earn a reprieve from the ensuing molestation.

Enjoying their usual after-dinner drink HE chats pleasantly with her father. From the kitchen, she can hear the cheerful tone of their conversation in the living room. She stops for a moment and glances at them. How relaxed they seem. How dignified they look.

The two men who have plundered her soul — and ravaged her body.